Before I know it, I’m in the Dumonts’ fancy car, in the back seat, and I’m watching London and the English countryside fly by. It’s so beautiful and green, with so many rolling fields and cute houses. All the foster homes I’ve been in were in the city, in dirty areas.
I have a million questions, and I don’t speak any French, but luckily Mr. and Mrs. Dumont both speak English as well as I do.
“What’s your home like?” I ask them.
“I think you’ll enjoy it,” Mr. Dumont says. “It’s just outside the city of Paris. Lots of space to run around and play. Lots of birds and trees and flowers. Very different from London.”
“And you said you have two sons? Does that mean they’ll be my brothers?”
Mr. and Mrs. Dumont exchange a look, smiling at each other. “Yes,” Mr. Dumont says. “Olivier and Renaud. They’ll be your brothers, as we will be your parents. I know it will take some getting used to.”
“It won’t,” I say. Because that’s the truth. I’m already used to it. It’s like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life. The longer this car drives on, the more I feel like I’m actually escaping from that horrible place and the horrible people who would take me in and spit me out after a few months.
“I think you’ll adjust to things very nicely,” Mrs. Dumont says. “Now look, we’re about to enter the tunnel. We’re going to drive on the train, see, and then the train will take us under the water to France.”
There’s a train beside us and the doors on the side are open, and we actually drive onto it and down through the train. It’s kind of scary, and reminds me of some space movies I’ve seen. I wish I had some sort of stuffed animal from the orphanage, but I’m always losing that kind of thing.
Mrs. Dumont turns around in her seat and hands me a teddy bear. It’s fluffy and brown with big eyes. “I got this for you.”
It’s like she could read my mind! I stare at her in awe before I take the teddy bear in my arms, holding it close to me. “What’s its name?” I ask her excitedly.
“Anything you want,” she says.
I think about that for a moment. I think the bear should be called Ernest. Then I say, “Can I have a new name too?”
They look at each other again, in surprise. “Bien sûr,” Mr. Dumont says. “But of course. Any name you wish to have. You will be a Dumont now. You are free to become whoever you would like to be.”
I think about that for a bit. I don’t know what I want my new name to be, but I do want it to be French.
“Can I think about it?” I ask, scrunching up my face, hoping they’ll give me time.
Mrs. Dumont laughs. “Take all the time in the world, darling. Until then, you’ll be Jamillah. It’s a pretty name too. When we saw your name and picture in the email the orphanage sent us, that’s when we knew.”
“Knew what?” I ask.
“That you were going to be our daughter,” she says. “We had been wanting to adopt for years, but everything always fell through and nothing ever felt quite right. That is, until we saw your face. We said that’s our girl. That’s who we have been waiting for and who has been waiting for us.”
“Did you used to wish for me? Because I wished for a family—a nice one—every single night.”
Mrs. Dumont almost looks like she’s crying, her eyes are all shiny. “We did.”
Another few hours go by in the car as we drive through France, but it also feels like no time at all. My face is glued to the window as I hug Ernest tight, watching the landscape go past me. It reminds me of Beauty and the Beast, all the little towns that go past.
Finally we pull down a long driveway to a house right out of a fairy tale. It is large, the biggest house I’ve ever seen, made of stone and surrounded by sunlight and roses.
“We’re here,” Mrs. Dumont says cheerfully as the car comes to a stop right in front.
“This is where I’m going to live?” I ask.
“Bien sûr,” Mr. Dumont says. “And that’s Olivier and Renaud right now.”
I look and see the large wooden door of the house open, and two boys step out. They look to be a few years older than me, and tall. At first I feel a bit sick at the sight of them, because the boys I’ve met in foster homes have always been so mean, and I don’t want these boys to be mean to me too.
“Come on, let’s meet them,” Mrs. Dumont says as she gets out of the car with her husband.
She opens the door for me and holds out her hand. I unbuckle my seat belt, making sure not to let go of Ernest, and grab hold of her hand tight.
She leads me over to the two boys, who are staring at me curiously. They’re dressed really nice—clean dark jeans and shirts tucked in. They’re cute, and when they see me, they both smile shyly.
Maybe this won’t be so bad.
Maybe they aren’t bad boys like the rest of them.
“Jamillah,” Mr. Dumont says, “meet your new brothers, Olivier and Renaud. They’re your family now. We’re all a family now.”
I return the same shy smile to them. “Hello,” I say.
“Bonjour,” Olivier, the younger one, says. “Est-ce que tu parles français?”
I don’t know what he’s saying, so I shrug and say, “Nice to meet you. This is my bear, Ernest.” I show my bear to them proudly.
Renaud steps forward and shakes the bear’s hand. “It is nice to meet you, Ernest,” he says in English. “As well as you, Jamillah.”
“Welcome to the family,” Olivier says. “As they say.”
Welcome to my family.
CHAPTER ONE
SERAPHINE
What an officious fucking psychopath.
That’s all I can think as I stare at my uncle Gautier’s tired yet insidious face, like the old man has earned every wrinkle through the ravishing of someone else’s soul. He stands at the head of the boardroom table and drones on and on about the new website and the online sales and everything he’s done since he’s taken over the company that once belonged to my father.
But of course, he’s not just droning—he’s gloating. He’s bragging about the Dumont label and the boost in sales since he took the business online for the first time in the company’s history, something my father and I had fought against from day one. The old world versus the new world. The good world versus the bad one.
Doesn’t every conflict come down to that?
We always knew that taking the luxury brand online would increase our profits. But it would cheapen the brand, our legacy. It would take away the mystique of the label, the exclusiveness. My father believed that the impulsive, instant-gratification buying habits of today would work against us. “Isn’t it always better to covet than to have?” he’d say.
Though I could always relate to that idea in some way, it was a terrible ideology when your whole career depends on people “having” rather than “coveting.” But it kept the Dumont name up there—the best of the best, the purveyor of makeup and ready-to-wear clothing and iconic leather handbags meant to be worn with hard-earned pride. Subtlety was our specialty. Elegance was our mandate. Class was held above everything else.