“Did you know you were adopted?” Rowan couldn’t count how many times she’d heard that question. She couldn’t help but wonder how dull the askers thought she was, given that both of her parents were cis women, technically they could have used a surrogate, maybe. Given that she looks nothing like either of them, she figured it should be obvious to anyone who has met all three of them. “Does it bother you?” She had no idea why it should. Granted, someone, at least one someone, had decided pretty damned early on that they didn’t want her, but a whole family of people decided that they did. She thought that righted the scales, to some degree at least. Even if someone chose to drop her off without so much as a “how do you do,” someone else, (plenty of someone elses, she might add), chose her to round out their family. She couldn’t resent that, even if some part of her might want to.
“Do you want to know your ‘real’ family?” Some people had the good sense to say “biological,” but was next to impossible not to scoff when people called the random anonymous collection of DNA that might be like hers her “real” family. Even on days when it might be uncomfortable (or was an invitation for uncomfortable questions), days when the school wanted them to make those little family trees with cut out photos and construction paper, she only felt the tiniest twinge of frustration. Mostly at the people who asked her why she didn’t look like her parents, her red hair and grey eyes a sharp contrast to the dark hair and eyes of her mothers. She couldn’t remember if she’d ever snapped at the people who asked those prying questions, she didn’t think she would have. She imagined that she would be curious in their shoes, though she might not have the gall to come out and ask.
“Maybe you could try one of those ancestry DNA tests, aren’t you curious at all?” She couldn’t deny a mild curiosity about whatever heritage she might have, though she suspected that the answer was a loud and resounding “white.” She couldn’t claim the Basque or Cuban ancestry of either of her parents, not that it stopped them from including her and her sisters in their stories. Or that it stopped Abuelita from teaching them her family recipes. She knew she was lucky, that so many others had been lied to, made to feel like they were somehow less important than any biological kids their parents might have. She’d never felt that. She’d never felt unloved, or unwanted, or any of the other un-s that she’d heard some other adoptees might experience. Did she wonder why they left her behind? Sometimes. She couldn’t imagine anyone in her situation wouldn’t, but she decided a long time ago that she would never let that wondering define her, nor would she allow it to eat at any part of her. If she meant so little to them, they would mean less to her. Her sisters certainly didn’t, though Willow had a touch more of that nagging curiosity than she or Laurel did.

Ultimately, she told herself, it didn’t matter. She had everyone she really needed. Maybe not everyone she wanted, but that could never be defined by DNA.