JUNE THIRD
I press the phone to my ear, sitting on the bench, and whisper a wary, "Hello?"
"You have a beautiful voice, Sophia. This is the third time I've heard it," said the woman who declared herself my mother.
"You were the one on the line all the time?"
"Yes," she answered.
"But the voice in New York was different; it sounded like a meal and somewhat electronic."
"I didn't want to blow my cover," she said.
"I care so much about, less about—" I didn't finish when she cut me off. "I care about you more than I care about myself."
That's laughable. "Clearly."
"Sophia."
"My name is June Third. Tell your people to get it right. Where you dumped me, the women named us after a calendar and numbers, and I used to hate it, but at least it tells my history," I explained.
"When I was l
