I stared at them in disbelief. “I’m adopted?!”
“That’s right, Sweety,” Mom said.
“You’re not my real mom?!”
“Not biologically, no.”
“Then who is?” I asked, dreading the answer.
Mom looked at me thoughtfully before answering. “A girl in New York.”
“Just… a girl?”
“She plans to become a literary agent; she once said something garbled about snark, but I didn’t quite get it.”
I finally began to understand myself that day—the urges I had about books, the attraction and revulsion to large stacks of paper, the laser vision. That was the day I began to become an editor.
How I became Evil is another, though it just might be hereditary, too.