I honored Rebecca’s request.
That was harder than it should have been.
By nine that evening, I had picked up my phone six times.
Once to call her.
Twice to call Anna.
Three times simply because sitting alone in the house felt unbearable.
Each time I put the phone down.
Rebecca had asked for one day.
After everything our family had taken from her without permission, I could give her twenty-four hours.
So I read.
Every document.
Every letter.
Every page in the box from my mother’s attic.
Then I read them again.
The story did not become cleaner.
It became more complicated.
My mother had initiated the separation.
Carol had lied when Anna came looking for me.
A private adoption had been arranged.
The birth date had been changed.
Carol had regretted it.
Anna had searched later.
Ruth had blocked her.
Those pieces were clear.
But one question would not leave me alone.
Why had my mother wanted Rebecca placed with me?
If Ruth hated the idea of Anna becoming part of my life, why allow Anna’s child to remain in it?
At first I assumed she simply believed blood mattered.
Then I found a note clipped to one of the legal receipts.
Call M. Collins regarding arrangement. She says C. is willing.
C.
Carol.
Willing to what?
Adopt?
Lie?
Keep Anna away?
I stared at the name.
M. Collins.
Anna had remembered Marjorie Cole or Collins.
The letter in the attic was signed only Marjorie.
I searched the documents.
Another receipt had a typed name at the bottom.
Marjorie Collins.
There it was.
I opened my laptop.
If she had been around fifty in 1985, she would be in her nineties now.
Possibly dead.
I searched anyway.
The first results were useless.
Then I found an obituary for a Raymond Collins that listed a surviving sister, Marjorie Collins Bryant, age ninety-one.
The obituary was two years old.
A town in Ohio.
I searched the new surname.
An assisted living facility appeared in the same area.
I felt ridiculous calling after ten at night, so I wrote the information down.
Then I went to bed.
Sleep did not come.
Around midnight, I walked into Carol’s side of the closet.
Her clothes still hung exactly where she had left them.
A blue cardigan.
Two winter coats.
The floral dress Rebecca had chosen for our anniversary dinner.
I touched the sleeve.
“What were you thinking?”
No answer.
I sat on the floor.
For days, I had divided Carol into two women.
The wife I loved.
The young woman who helped hide my child from me.
But there had never been two Carols.
Only one person capable of love and cowardice at the same time.
That was harder to hate.
By morning, I had slept perhaps two hours.
At eight thirty, I called the assisted living facility.
A receptionist answered.
I asked for Marjorie Collins Bryant.
There was a pause.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Walter Miller.”
Silence.
Then the receptionist said, “One moment.”
I waited.
A woman came on the line.
Not Marjorie.
Her daughter.
“This is Elaine.”
I explained as little as possible.
I said her mother may have been involved in a private adoption nearly forty years earlier.
Elaine sighed.
“My mother was a social worker.”
“So the name sounds familiar?”
“No.”
My hope fell.
Then she added, “But my mother kept journals.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“Journals?”
“She recorded almost everything.”
“Would she speak with me?”
Elaine hesitated.
“Some days are better than others.”
“I understand.”
“You’re asking about 1985?”
“Yes.”
“Why now?”
I looked at Carol’s letter.
“Because the people who kept the secret are dying.”
Elaine did not respond for several seconds.
Then she said, “Come tomorrow.”
The facility sat outside Columbus.
I left at six the next morning.
Rebecca had still not called.
The one day she requested had passed.
I sent one message.
I love you. I won’t push. Call whenever you’re ready.
No reply.
I drove west.
The assisted living facility was a low brick building surrounded by maple trees already turning gold.
Elaine met me in the lobby.
She was perhaps sixty-five.
Short gray hair.
Direct eyes.
“You’re Walter?”
“Yes.”
She shook my hand.
“My mother is awake.”
“Does she understand why I’m here?”
“Sometimes she understands everything. Sometimes she thinks Reagan is president.”
“That seems fair.”
Elaine almost smiled.
Then she led me down a hallway.
Marjorie sat beside a window wearing a lavender sweater.
Small.
Fragile.
But when Elaine said my name, the old woman turned sharply.
“Walter Miller?”
My heart jumped.
“Yes.”
She stared at me.
Then her expression tightened.
“Ruth’s boy.”
I felt suddenly twenty-four again.
“Yes.”
Marjorie looked toward her daughter.
“Where is Ruth?”
“Mom, Ruth died years ago.”
“Good.”
Elaine looked embarrassed.
I did not.
Marjorie pointed to the chair.
“Sit.”
I did.
For several seconds she examined me.
“You look like your father.”
“People used to say that.”
“He knew?”
My pulse quickened.
“Knew what?”
Marjorie frowned.
Then looked confused.
Elaine leaned toward her.
“Mom, Walter is asking about an adoption in 1985.”
Marjorie’s face cleared.
“The Mercer girl.”
I stopped breathing.
“Yes.”
“She cried.”
Elaine looked at me.
I could not speak.
Marjorie continued.
“She cried all night.”
My throat tightened.
“Anna?”
“Pretty girl. Dark hair. Wouldn’t eat.”
I leaned forward.
“Did she want to give up her baby?”
Marjorie stared past me.
“Want is a dangerous word.”
“What do you mean?”
“People sign many things they don't want.”
Elaine touched her mother’s arm.
“Mom, do you remember Ruth Miller?”
Marjorie’s mouth tightened.
“Everyone remembered Ruth.”
“What did she do?”
The old woman looked at me.
“She paid.”
“For the adoption?”
“For everything.”
“What everything?”
“Hospital. Room. Lawyer. Problem.”
My stomach turned.
“Problem?”
Marjorie blinked.
“You.”
I sat back.
Elaine whispered, “Mom.”
But I raised a hand.
“No. Let her talk.”
Marjorie leaned toward me.
“Ruth said the girl was ruining your future.”
“She wasn't.”
“Tell Ruth.”
“I wish I could.”
The old woman looked toward the window.
“Ruth wanted the baby away from Anna.”
“Why?”
“Control.”
The answer came with no hesitation.
“Why give the baby to me?”
Marjorie’s eyes returned to mine.
“Because Carol asked.”
I felt a chill.
“Carol wanted Rebecca?”
Marjorie frowned.
“Rebecca?”
“The baby.”
“Oh.”
She nodded.
“The baby.”
“Carol asked for her?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before she was born.”
My hands went cold.
“How long before?”
Marjorie stared at her lap.
I thought I had lost her.
Then she said, “Christmas.”
Rebecca was born in February.
Two months before.
Carol had decided before the birth.
“Did she know the child was mine?”
Marjorie looked almost offended.
“Of course.”
Elaine inhaled sharply.
I stared at the old woman.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why would Carol want Anna’s child?”
Marjorie’s face changed.
For the first time, something like sadness appeared.
“She couldn't have babies.”
“I know.”
“She loved you.”
I waited.
“And Ruth told her this would fix everything.”
The room went quiet.
“What does that mean?”
Marjorie rubbed one hand over the other.
“Ruth said blood would stay with blood.”
My mother.
There it was.
“She didn’t want Anna,” I said slowly. “But she wanted the baby.”
Marjorie nodded.
“Ruth believed a child belonged to the father’s family.”
“And the mother?”
“Ruth did not consider Anna suitable.”
Anger rose so quickly I had to breathe before speaking.
“Based on what?”
“Poor family.”
“That's it?”
“Ruth didn't need much.”
Elaine looked down.
I leaned closer.
“Did Anna know I would adopt her child?”
Marjorie’s eyes widened.
“No.”
“Did Carol know Anna did not know?”
“Yes.”
My stomach twisted.
“Did you know?”
The old woman stared at me.
A long silence.
Then she looked toward her daughter.
“I was not a good woman then.”
Elaine squeezed her hand.
Marjorie continued.
“I told myself the child would have money.”
“Money?”
“A house. Married parents.”
“Anna would have loved her.”
“Yes.”
The old woman closed her eyes.
“I learned too late that stability can be used as a polite word for theft.”
I could barely swallow.
“Was the adoption legal?”
Elaine stiffened.
Marjorie said nothing.
I asked again.
“Was it legal?”
The old woman opened her eyes.
“The papers were legal.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Marjorie smiled sadly.
“No.”
My chest tightened.
“What was wrong?”
“Dates.”
“What else?”
“Consent.”
I leaned forward.
“What about consent?”
Marjorie shook her head.
“She signed.”
“You said that already.”
“She signed after medication.”
My stomach dropped.
“What medication?”
“She had a difficult delivery.”
“Was she competent to sign?”
Elaine interrupted.
“Mom, you need to be careful.”
Marjorie ignored her.
“Ruth wanted it done quickly.”
I felt sick.
“How quickly?”
“Same day.”
Anna had told me she barely remembered parts of the hospital stay.
Now I understood why.
“Did Anna ever try to revoke the adoption?”
Marjorie looked at me.
“Yes.”
My hands tightened.
“When?”
“Three days later.”
My heart slammed.
“What happened?”
“Ruth said the papers were final.”
“Were they?”
Marjorie gave a tiny shake of her head.
“No.”
The room became silent.
I heard a cart rolling somewhere in the hallway.
I whispered, “So Anna could have gotten her back.”
“Yes.”
“But my mother lied.”
“Yes.”
“And you helped.”
“Yes.”
Elaine lowered her head.
Marjorie looked at me with tears in her eyes.
“I helped.”
For the first time, I saw the cost of memory in her face.
Not enough to undo anything.
But real.
“Did Carol know Anna tried to revoke?”
Marjorie hesitated.
That hesitation told me the answer mattered.
“Yes.”
My breath left me.
Carol knew.
Not only that Anna had been pressured.
Not only that the adoption was questionable.
She knew Anna tried to get Rebecca back.
“When?”
“After the child went home with you.”
“Did Carol tell me?”
“You’re asking me a question you already know.”
I looked away.
My eyes burned.
“What did she do?”
Marjorie spoke quietly.
“She came to me.”
“Carol?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“That she could not lose the baby.”
I closed my eyes.
Marjorie continued.
“She said you already loved her.”
Rebecca.
Of course I did.
I loved her before I knew how to warm a bottle correctly.
Before she ever slept through a night.
Before she knew my face.
Carol had seen that.
And used it.
“Did she say anything about me?”
“Yes.”
I opened my eyes.
“What?”
Marjorie hesitated.
“She said if you learned the truth, you would give the baby back to Anna and leave with them.”
The words hurt because they were probably true.
If I had learned then?
If someone had told me Anna still loved me and Rebecca was our daughter?
I would have gone to her.
I knew it.
Carol had known it too.
That fear had guided everything afterward.
Marjorie’s attention drifted.
Elaine stood.
“She’s getting tired.”
I nodded.
I had one final question.
“Did my father know?”
Marjorie looked toward me.
“Your father?”
“Thomas Miller.”
She stared for several seconds.
Then something sharpened in her eyes.
“Not then.”
My pulse jumped.
“Not then?”
Marjorie nodded.
“He found out later.”
I froze.
“When?”
She closed her eyes.
“Ask the pastor.”
“What pastor?”
But Marjorie had already drifted somewhere else.
Elaine tried to wake her more fully.
It did not work.
I stood.
“What did she mean?”
Elaine shook her head.
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Did your mother attend church with my parents?”
“I don't think so.”
“Did she keep journals from that year?”
“Yes.”
“Can I see them?”
Elaine hesitated.
“They’re personal.”
“So is my daughter.”
She studied me.
Then nodded.
“I'll look.”
Outside, I sat in my car without starting the engine.
My father had known.
Not at the beginning.
Later.
My father, who had died when Rebecca was twelve.
The gentlest person in our family.
The man I had spent my whole childhood believing could never keep a secret from me.
I thought of Marjorie’s final words.
Ask the pastor.
There had only been one pastor my father trusted enough to confide in.
Reverend Samuel Greene.
He had buried my father.
Then my mother.
He was retired now.
Last I heard, he lived in Tennessee.
My phone buzzed.
A message.
Rebecca.
Can you come over tonight? Alone.
I stared at the screen.
Every document, every new witness, every buried secret could wait.
My daughter had called.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: Rebecca Did Not Ask Whether Anna Wanted Her; She Asked the Question I Had Been Dreading Since Carol’s Confession
Three Days Before Carol Died, She Asked Me to Find the Woman I Had Spent Forty Years Forgetting
Part 6 of 35
