I’m driving the piece-of-shit car I picked up at the rental place. They didn’t have anything nice, but at least this thing has Bluetooth, so I’m listening to Enigma’s “T.N.T. for the Brain” from my phone on the car speakers. I raise the volume to the max.

In a confused stupor, trying to digest everything I’ve learned today, I follow my phone’s GPS directions. I know I need the Belt Parkway and the Verrazano Bridge after that, but once I get on Staten Island, I typically get lost—usually only a few blocks from where my moms live.

I called ahead to make sure they were home, but mentioned nothing of what I want to discuss. I plan to ambush them with my questions. They deserve it. I love them dearly, but I’ve never been angrier with them than I am now—not even during my rebellious mid-teen years. I’m especially mad at Sara.

Alternative lifestyle aside, Sara and Lucy are living, breathing stereotypes of two similar, yet different, kinds of moms.

Take Sara, for instance. She’s a Jewish mom to the core. Never mind that she’s the most secular person you’ll ever meet. Never mind that she married a non-Jew, which isn’t kosher. She still regularly hints—and sometimes outright says—that since I’ve finished my degree from a good school (of course), I should meet a nice girl (meaning a Jewish girl) and settle down. At twenty-one. Right. And she has all the usual guilt-trip skills down to a T. For example, if I don’t call for a couple of days, I get the whole ‘you don’t need to trouble yourself to call your own mother; it’s not like I’m in any way important,’ et cetera, et cetera. And then there’s the weird stuff, like if I’m out late and make the mistake of mentioning it to her, she’ll want me to text her when I get home. Yeah. Never mind that on other nights—when I don’t talk to her—I might not come home at all, and she’s fine with my lack of texting.

Lucy is no better. Well, in truth, Lucy is better now. She only expects a call from me once a week, not daily. But when I was growing up, she was worse than Sara. She must’ve read that book about being a Tiger Mom and tried to apply it literally, with probably the worst possible subject—me. In hindsight, I think I had ADD when I was a kid. When it came to the violin lessons she tried to force me to take, I ‘accidentally’ broke a dozen of the stupid instruments to test her resolve. When I broke the last one (over another student’s head), I was expelled, and that did it for musical initiatives. Then there were the ballet lessons. I was kicked out for beating up a girl, which was not true. I knew from a very early age that you don’t hit girls. Another girl pushed the victim, but I, because of my reputation in the class, took the rap. Lucy also wanted me to learn her native Mandarin. I don’t care if I mastered a little bit from her when I was a baby, or that I can string together a few sentences even to this day; that was just not going to happen. If I’d studied Mandarin for her, I would’ve had to take Yiddish lessons for Sarah, too. Oy vey.

So, finishing school early and going to Harvard was partially an attempt to make my mothers happy, but even more so a means to get away from their overzealous parenting techniques and experience some freedom in Boston. Not to mention that finishing college allowed me to get a job and my own place as soon as possible. Ever since I gained some distance, my love for my family has deepened greatly.

As I pull into their driveway, I see three cars outside. I recognize the extra car as Uncle Kyle’s old Crown Victoria.

Great, he’s here. That’s the last thing I need.

“Hi Mom,” I say when Sara opens the door. I’ve never really seen much of myself in her, which makes me wonder that much more now about who my father might have been. We both have blue eyes, and I could’ve inherited her height, I guess. At five foot seven, she’s tall for a woman. She seems particularly tall when, like now, she’s standing next to my other mom. Lucy is barely above five feet tall, but don’t let her size deceive you. She’s tough. Plus, she has a gun—and knows how to use it.

“Hi sweetie,” Sara says, beaming at me.

“Hi Mom,” I say again, this time looking at Lucy.

“Hi Kitten,” Lucy says.

Hmm. Are they trying to embarrass me in front of Uncle Kyle?

“Hey Kyle,” I say with a lot less enthusiasm as I walk in.

He smiles at me, a rarity from him, and we shake hands.

I have mixed feelings when it comes to Kyle. Even though I mentally call him uncle, he’s not my blood relative. Sara was an only child. He’s a detective who works with Lucy. As former partners, I guess he and Lucy are close—a camaraderie I don’t pretend to understand, having never put my life in danger the way they have.

I imagine my moms decided to ask Kyle to come around when I was growing up so I’d have a male role model in my life. However, their choice for the task couldn’t have been worse. As far back as I can remember, I’ve butted heads with Kyle. Pick an issue, and we’re likely to be on opposite sides of it. Doctor-assisted suicide, the death penalty, cloning humans, you name it, and you can be sure we’ve had a shouting match over it. I like to think of myself as a free thinker, while Kyle clings to what was digested and fed to him by some form of authority, never stopping to question anything.

The biggest mystery to me is actually why someone so traditional even accepts my moms’ relationship. My theory is that he has a mental disconnect. I imagine he tells himself that despite their marriage, they’re just best friends who live together.

I also think he has a rather tragic crush on Lucy. He would call it brotherly love, but I’ve always been skeptical. Especially given his very professional, cold attitude toward Sara, a woman he’s known for over twenty years. An attitude that was chilly all along, but grew downright frigid after the huge fight they had when he decided to discipline me with a belt when I was nine. I was clever enough to scream and cry like a banshee, and predictably, Sara had a major fit. She actually threw a vase in his face. I think he had to get stitches. After that, he only used words to discipline me, and his interactions with Sara became even more aloof.

Having said all that, after I stopped needing to deal with Kyle regularly, I began to feel more fondness for the bastard. I know he usually means well. He’s the closest thing to a father figure I have, and he did come around a lot, generally with good intentions. He told me cool stories about back in the day when he and Lucy kicked ass and took names—stories Lucy never chose to share, for some reason. And I wouldn’t be half as good a debater now if not for all that arguing with him. For better or for worse, he played a role in the person I’ve become, and that’s an honor usually reserved for people you consider close.

“How’s work?” Kyle asks. “Are we due for another financial meltdown anytime soon?”

Kyle isn’t a fan of anyone in the financial industry. I can forgive that; few people are fans of them. Or should I say of us? Also, only a tiny portion of the population understands the difference between bankers and hedge fund analysts, or can tell any financial professional from another.

“Work is great,” I respond. “I’m researching a biotech company that’s going to use magnetic waves to manipulate human brains for therapy.”

Lucy narrows her eyes at me. She knows I’m trying to start an argument again. But I have to hand it to Kyle: this time, he doesn’t take the bait. Usually he would go into some Luddite bullshit about how frightening and unnatural what I just said sounds, how dangerous it is to mess with people’s brains like that. But no, he doesn’t say anything of the sort.

“I’m glad you’re making a name for yourself at that company,” he says instead. Is that an olive branch? “I was just on my way out, but I’ll see you at Lucy’s birthday party in a few weeks.”

“Sure, Kyle,” I say. “See you then.”

He walks out, and Lucy walks out with him. He probably came to get her advice on a case. He does that to this day, despite not having been her partner for decades.

“When will you grow up?” Sara chides, smiling. “Why must you always push people’s buttons?”

“Oh, that’s rich, you defending Kyle.” I roll my eyes.

“He’s a good man,” she says, shrugging.

“Whatever,” I say, dismissing the subject with a single word. The last thing I’m interested in right now is an argument about Kyle. “We need to talk. You should actually sit down for this.”

Alarm is written all over Sara’s face. I’m not sure what she imagines I’m going to say, but she has a tendency to expect the worst.

“Should we wait for your mother?” she says. They both say that in reference to the other, and it’s always funny to me. Your mother.

“Probably. It’s nothing bad. I just have some important questions,” I say. Despite everything, I feel guilty that I’ve worried her.

I notice that she pales at the mention of important questions.

“Are you hungry?” she asks, looking me up and down with concern. Please, not the too-thin talk again. If it weren’t for Lucy intervening, my own lack of appetite, and my stubbornness, I would be the chubbiest son Sara could possibly raise. And the fatter I’d get, the happier Sara would be as a mom. She would be able to show me around and say ‘see how fat he is, that’s how much I love him.’ I know she got that ‘feeding is caring’ attitude from Grandma, who wouldn’t rest until you were as big as a house.

The fact that Sara doesn’t pursue the food topic now shows me how concerned she is. Is it some kind of guilt thing? Does she suspect what I’m about to ask?

“No, thanks, Mom. I just had some sushi,” I say. “But I would love some coffee.”

“Did you go out partying all night?” She appears even more worried now. “You look exhausted.”

“I didn’t sleep well last night, but I’m okay, Mom.”

She shakes her head and goes into the kitchen. I follow. Their house is still unfamiliar. I preferred the cramped Manhattan apartment where I grew up, but my moms decided a few years back that it was time for the suburbs and home ownership. At least they have some of the same familiar furniture I remember from childhood, like the chair I’m now sitting in. And the heavy round kitchen table. And the cup, red with polka dots, that she hands to me. My cup.

“I smell coffee,” Lucy says, coming back.

“I made you a cup, too,” Sara says.

“You read my mind,” Lucy responds, smiling.

I decide I’m not going to get a better segue than that. Is it literally true? Can Sara Read Lucy’s mind?

“Mom,” I say to Sara. “Is there something important you want to tell me about my heritage?”

I look at them both. They look shell-shocked.

“How did you figure it out?” Lucy asks, staring at me.

“I’m so sorry,” Sara says guiltily.

The vehemence of their reaction confuses me, considering my relatively innocuous question. I haven’t even gotten to the heavy stuff yet. But it seems like I’m onto something, so I just say nothing and try to look as blank as I can, since I’m not sure what we’re talking about. I sense we’re not exactly on the same page.

“We always meant to tell you,” Sara continues, tears forming in her eyes. “But it never seemed like a good time.”

“For the longest time, until you were in your mid-teens, we couldn’t discuss it at all. Even among ourselves,” Lucy adds. She isn’t tearing up, but I can tell she’s distraught. “We even tried reading books about it. But the books recommend saying it as early as possible, which we didn’t do . . .”

“Saying what?” I ask, my voice rising. I’m reasonably certain I’m about to find out something other than what I came here to verify, since I’m not aware of any books about Reading.

Sara blinks at me through her tears. “I thought you knew . . . Isn’t that what you want to talk about? I thought you used some modern DNA test to figure it out.”

A wave of panic washes over me. I try not to phase. I want to hear this.

“I want to know what you’re talking about,” I say. “Right now.”

I look at them in turn. Daring them to try to wiggle out of it. They know they have to spill the beans now.

“You were adopted, Darren,” Lucy says quietly, looking at me.

“Yes,” Sara whispers. “I’m not your biological mother.” She starts to cry, something I’ve hated since I was a little kid. There’s something wrong, weirdly scary, about seeing your mom cry. Except—and the full enormity of it dawns on me—she’s not my birth mom.

She never has been.