Chapter 2: Blood and Strangers

When my biological parents came looking for me, my family was in the middle of butchering a hog for Christmas—a small-town tradition known as the “Holiday Hog Roast.”

We lived out past the edge of Millersville, where the lots were big enough for backyard livestock and folks called each other by first names across fences. Our house always smelled like smoke and fresh earth, especially around the holidays.

Half the neighborhood had come to help out. Neighbors leaned on the chain-link fence, sipping from mismatched travel mugs. Cousins and uncles in camo jackets swapped stories by the woodpile, and little kids shrieked, chasing each other around the muddy yard. The old radio played Christmas songs through static from the garage.

The yard was muddy from last week’s rain, and the folding tables were loaded with crockpots of mac and cheese, bowls of coleslaw, and cornbread still warm from the oven. A crowd pinned down the squealing pig; my dad gripped its snout with one hand, held a knife in the other, and plunged it into the pig’s neck.

The air was sharp with the smell of iron and burning straw. I remember the pig’s eyes rolling, and my dad's face set in that determined, focused way—like nothing in the world mattered more than doing the job right.

The pig thrashed even harder, blood spraying all over my dad’s Carhartt jacket. The stain spread fast, soaking into the canvas fabric Dad wore for everything from snow shoveling to barbecues. He didn't even flinch, just kept his grip steady, the kind of grit you only get from living rural.

At that moment, the pig was at its most valuable. Uncle Carl shouted over the ruckus, reminding everyone that nothing goes to waste. Folks swapped recipes for scrapple and head cheese, and old Mrs. Hartley made sure the best bits would go in the stew pot later.

In our not-so-large backyard, Dad was butchering the pig and hacking bones, Mom was singeing the pig’s head with a blowtorch to remove the bristles, my older brother was hauling slabs of pork fat to the smoker, my older sister was slicing up congealed blood for sausage, and I was washing my favorite—pig intestines.

The whole yard was alive with motion and chatter. I hummed along to a country tune, my hands red and slick, trying not to splash water on my boots. Every so often, Mom would call out, reminding us not to let anything slip down the drain.

The folks who’d come to help were lending a hand and waiting for the hog roast feast. Some people brought folding chairs, others showed up with homemade pies or mason jars of sweet tea. The kitchen window steamed up as the women passed trays back and forth, and kids darted between adults, hoping to sneak a bite before dinner.

Everyone was busy, so it took a while before we noticed two unfamiliar people standing in the yard.

The music faded for a second. It was the neighbor’s dog, barking at the newcomers, that made folks look up.

It was a middle-aged couple we’d never seen before. They looked like they’d just stepped off a magazine page about big-city living. Their hair was perfectly styled, not a fleck of mud anywhere.

The man wore a suit, the woman was decked out in gold jewelry. He had on a navy blue suit, the kind you might see at a law office, with shiny brown Oxfords. The woman wore a wool coat and gold bangles, her nails painted a subtle pink. She kept glancing down, probably regretting the shoes.

Their expensive leather shoes were planted in mud mixed with pig’s blood, and they looked totally lost. You could see the horror dawning on their faces as the scene played out—blood pooling around their heels, a pig’s squeal echoing through the yard. It was about as far from the country club as you could get.

They stared at us—each of us clutching a piece of pig carcass—and trembled with fear. For a second, I thought maybe we were the ones who looked out of place. Dad was elbow-deep in gore, my brother’s jeans were splattered, and I realized I had a streak of something on my cheek.

Dad had just finished the slaughter, the tough look still lingering. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and asked:

He thumbed his old Zippo and gave them a look that said, You lost, or just looking for trouble? "What are you folks doing here?"

The middle-aged man mustered his courage and cleared his throat. The man shifted from foot to foot, glancing at his wife before answering. You could see he’d never had to explain himself in a place like this before.

"I… We’re here to find our daughter."

"Looking for your daughter at my house? What for?" Mom tossed the pig’s head into a basin. She wiped her hands on her apron, the motion brisk and businesslike, her gaze sharp and steady as she eyed the newcomers.

"How could our family have your daughter? What, are you with Child Protective Services or something?"

A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the crowd, but it quickly faded. Folks stopped what they were doing. Even the kids looked up, sensing the tension.

The whole yard fell silent. You could hear the drip of water from the faucet and the distant clanging of church bells. Time seemed to freeze, everyone bracing for the stranger’s next words.

Dad silently picked up the bone cleaver, Mom hefted the boiling pot, my brother grabbed the iron ladle, my sister snatched up a firewood stick, and the other uncles and aunts grabbed brooms, shovels, pots, and pans. Even our old golden retriever, Duke, broke free of his leash and bared his teeth at them. It looked like the world’s weirdest standoff—pots, pans, and a garden rake versus two strangers in dry-clean-only.

The couple was terrified. They quickly raised their hands and pointed at me, their fingers shaking.

The woman’s voice quavered, and the man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he pointed my way, hands up in surrender as if we might chase them off with the pig’s head.

"We really are here to find our daughter—the one who was switched at birth eighteen years ago at Maple Heights Hospital."

Their words hung in the frosty air, almost too strange to process. I saw a few of the neighbors’ jaws drop, and Mrs. Hartley muttered, “Well, I’ll be darned.”

For a moment—every gaze in the yard landed on me. I felt the heat of every stare, all the familiar faces turning in my direction. It was as if the world had spun just a little off-kilter.

The pig intestine in my hand slipped to the ground with a wet plop. It landed on my boot, splattering my jeans. I was too stunned to even care.

"…Uh…"

I tried to form words, but my mouth went dry. My mind ran wild, racing back through every moment I’d ever doubted where I belonged.