Rebecca opened the door before I knocked.
She had changed clothes since I last saw her.
Sweatpants.
An old college sweatshirt.
Her hair was tied back.
She looked exhausted.
“Come in.”
I stepped inside.
The house was quiet.
“Where are the boys?”
“Mark took them to his mother's.”
Her husband.
I nodded.
“He knows?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“That there’s something about my adoption and I need space.”
I removed my coat.
“Do you want me to tell him?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“I will.”
“Okay.”
Rebecca walked toward the living room.
On the coffee table lay a notebook.
My stomach tightened.
She sat on the sofa.
I took the chair opposite.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she opened the notebook.
“I wrote questions.”
“Ask anything.”
She looked at me.
“Anything?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you don't like it?”
“Especially then.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Did Mom know Anna was pregnant before you and Mom started dating?”
I considered the timeline.
“I don't know exactly when Carol first knew.”
“But she knew before you married.”
“Yes.”
“Before you adopted me.”
“Yes.”
“Did Grandma Ruth know Anna still wanted you?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca wrote something.
The scratching of the pen sounded enormous.
“Did Mom?”
“Yes.”
Another note.
“Did Anna try to contact you?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you try to contact her?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca looked up.
“When?”
“After I moved. But I had received what I thought was her letter asking me to leave her alone.”
“You still tried?”
“A few times.”
“Did Mom know?”
“I don't know.”
Rebecca wrote again.
Then she stopped.
“Was the letter fake?”
“I believe so.”
“Written by Grandma?”
“Possibly.”
“Do you have it?”
“No.”
“Did you keep it?”
“For years.”
“Where is it?”
“I threw it away before we moved into the house you grew up in.”
She nodded slowly.
Another vanished piece.
“Did Mom know Anna was my birth mother?”
“Yes.”
That one still hurt every time.
Rebecca's jaw tightened.
“Did she know you were my father?”
“Yes.”
She set the pen down.
“Did she choose me because I was yours?”
I looked at her.
The question was harder than all the others.
“I spoke to a woman today who helped arrange the adoption.”
Rebecca’s expression changed.
“You did what?”
“She is ninety-three.”
“You found her?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Carol and Grandma Ruth kept her name in their papers.”
Rebecca leaned back.
“Of course they did.”
“Her name is Marjorie Collins Bryant.”
“What did she say?”
I told her.
Not every detail at first.
Only enough.
Ruth wanted Anna gone.
Carol wanted the baby.
The adoption was arranged before Rebecca was born.
When I reached that sentence, Rebecca lifted a hand.
“Wait.”
I stopped.
“Before I was born?”
“Yes.”
“Mom knew she wanted me before Anna even gave birth?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca stared at the floor.
“So I wasn't some random adoption.”
“No.”
“She picked me.”
“Yes.”
“Because I was yours.”
“That seems to be part of it.”
“Part?”
I forced myself not to soften the answer.
“She couldn't have children.”
Rebecca’s face twisted.
“So she took yours.”
I flinched.
My daughter saw it.
“Too harsh?”
“No.”
“What word do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“Adopted sounds clean.”
“I know.”
“Stole sounds ugly.”
“Yes.”
“Which is true?”
“I don't know legally.”
“I’m not asking legally.”
I looked at her.
“Then I think what happened to Anna was wrong.”
Rebecca waited.
“And Carol?”
I swallowed.
“She helped make it happen.”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
There was no way to protect her from this without repeating the same sin.
After several seconds, she asked, “Did Anna want me?”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately.
Rebecca opened her eyes.
“How do you know?”
“She tried to reverse the adoption three days after you were born.”
Rebecca went utterly still.
“What?”
“The woman I spoke with confirmed it.”
“Three days?”
“Yes.”
“She tried to get me back?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“Grandma Ruth told her the papers were final.”
“Were they?”
“No.”
Rebecca stood.
Her notebook fell to the floor.
“No.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
She walked toward the fireplace.
“No. No. No.”
I stayed seated.
“She could have gotten me back?”
“Yes.”
“And Grandma lied?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mom know?”
I hesitated.
Rebecca turned.
“Dad.”
“Yes.”
She stared at me.
“Mom knew Anna wanted me back?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“After we brought you home.”
Rebecca’s face changed.
The grief became fury.
She picked up a framed photograph from the mantel.
Carol holding Rebecca on her wedding day.
For one terrifying second, I thought she would throw it.
Instead she placed it face down.
Her hands shook.
“She knew.”
“Yes.”
“All those years.”
“Yes.”
“She knew.”
I nodded.
Rebecca covered her mouth.
I had watched my daughter cry many times.
Broken bones.
First heartbreak.
Her grandfather’s funeral.
Carol’s death.
This was different.
She did not cry like someone mourning a person.
She cried like someone losing the meaning of a memory.
“That story she told me.”
“What story?”
Rebecca looked at me.
“When I was little. About how you both waited forever for a baby.”
I remembered.
“You did wait.”
“She said they called one morning and told you a baby girl needed a home.”
My chest tightened.
“That’s what I believed.”
“She knew it wasn’t true.”
“Yes.”
Rebecca laughed bitterly.
“She gave me that story every birthday.”
I closed my eyes.
Every birthday, Carol told Rebecca about the day we brought her home.
How nervous I was.
How Rebecca opened her eyes.
How Carol knew immediately.
I had always believed the retelling was love.
Now I understood why Carol insisted on controlling every detail.
“What did Anna name me?”
The question surprised me.
“She didn't officially.”
Rebecca nodded.
“Because I was taken too quickly.”
“Yes.”
“Did she hold me?”
“I believe so.”
“Did she breastfeed me?”
“I don't know.”
“Did she take a picture?”
“I saw a hospital bracelet. No photograph.”
Rebecca wiped her face.
“Does she have other children?”
“I don't think so.”
“You don't think?”
“I didn't ask.”
“Why not?”
“Because when I saw her, I was still trying to understand everything.”
Rebecca lowered herself onto the sofa.
“Is she married?”
“I don’t know.”
“You spent four hours with this woman and didn't ask basic questions?”
“I wasn't interviewing her.”
She looked at me sharply.
“What were you doing?”
I answered honestly.
“Watching my past come back to life.”
Rebecca went quiet.
I regretted the words immediately.
“I'm sorry.”
“No.”
She picked up the notebook.
“That's useful.”
“What is?”
“You still love her.”
I stared at her.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Rebecca.”
“Dad, I’m not twelve.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I looked away.
“Anna and I loved each other.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I don't know what I feel now.”
Rebecca studied me.
“Mom knew you would leave her for Anna.”
I swallowed.
“That’s what Carol apparently believed.”
“Would you have?”
“In 1985?”
“Yes.”
I forced myself to answer.
“If I had known Anna was pregnant and still wanted to be with me, I believe I would have gone to her.”
Rebecca nodded slowly.
“So Mom was right.”
“About my choice then, maybe.”
Rebecca looked down.
“That’s awful.”
“Yes.”
“And also understandable.”
I looked at her.
She gave a humorless laugh.
“I hate that.”
“So do I.”
Rebecca closed the notebook.
Then asked the question Anna had predicted.
“Does Anna hate Mom?”
“No.”
“How can she not?”
“She has anger.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“She told me a terrible choice and a lifetime of love can exist in the same person.”
Rebecca stared at me.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
“About Mom?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca’s face crumpled.
For the first time, she let herself cry without fighting it.
I moved toward her.
Then stopped.
“Can I?”
She nodded.
I sat beside her.
She leaned against me.
At thirty-eight, married, raising children, my daughter folded into my shoulder the same way she had after nightmares as a child.
I held her.
“I miss her,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“I’m furious at her.”
“I know.”
“How can both happen?”
“I don't know.”
“She lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“She loved me.”
“Yes.”
“She let another woman lose me.”
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
Rebecca cried harder.
I did too.
For several minutes, neither of us tried to speak.
Eventually she sat up.
“Does Anna want to meet me?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“She said maybe she could meet the woman you became.”
Rebecca inhaled shakily.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
“Not get her daughter back?”
“No.”
“Not be my mom?”
“No.”
Rebecca wiped her face.
“That helps.”
“She told me not to rush you.”
“She sounds smarter than everyone else in this family.”
“That would not be difficult.”
Rebecca almost smiled.
Then her expression became serious again.
“I want to meet her.”
My chest tightened.
“Okay.”
“But not tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Not here.”
“Where?”
“I don't know yet.”
“You choose.”
Rebecca nodded.
“And I want DNA.”
The request did not surprise me.
“Of course.”
“Not because I think you're lying.”
“I understand.”
“I need one fact no one can rewrite.”
The sentence stayed with me.
One fact no one could rewrite.
“I’ll arrange it.”
Rebecca looked at me.
“And Anna too.”
“Yes.”
“All three of us.”
I nodded.
“I’ll ask her.”
Rebecca picked up the photograph she had placed face down.
She turned it over.
Carol smiled from inside the frame.
“I don't want to destroy pictures.”
“You don't have to.”
“I don't want to stop loving her.”
“You don't have to.”
“I also don't want anyone telling me to forgive her because she’s dead.”
“I won’t.”
Rebecca held the frame against her chest.
Then she asked, “Why did Mom wait until she was dying?”
“I wish I knew.”
Rebecca looked toward me.
“Maybe she was scared you'd leave even after all those years.”
“Leave for Anna?”
“Yes.”
I shook my head.
“I was taking care of Carol while she was dying.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
I understood.
Rebecca was asking about emotional loyalty.
About the possibility that truth could reopen something Carol had spent decades containing.
Before I could answer, my phone rang.
Unknown Tennessee number.
I almost ignored it.
Then I remembered.
Reverend Greene.
I had left a message while driving home.
“Sorry,” I said. “This might matter.”
Rebecca nodded.
I answered.
“Walter?”
The voice was older but familiar.
“Reverend Greene?”
“Sam. I haven’t been Reverend anything for fifteen years.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
“Sam.”
“I got your message.”
“I’m sorry to bother you.”
“You said it concerned your father.”
Rebecca watched me.
I stood and walked toward the window.
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Thomas told me years ago you might call someday.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“What?”
“He said if the truth ever reached you, I should tell you what he knew.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
Rebecca stood.
“When did he tell you?”
“Two weeks before he died.”
My father had known he was dying.
Cancer.
A short illness.
“He knew about Anna?”
“Yes.”
“And Rebecca?”
A longer pause.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Rebecca whispered, “What?”
I held up one finger.
“When did Dad find out?”
“About six months before he died.”
Rebecca was twelve.
“How?”
“Ruth told him.”
“Why?”
“Because Thomas found papers.”
Of course.
Secrets always left paper.
“What did he do?”
“He confronted her.”
“And?”
Sam exhaled.
“Walter, your father wanted to tell you.”
My throat tightened.
“But he didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Ruth told him something that frightened him.”
“What?”
Silence.
Then Sam said, “She told him Anna had another child.”
I frowned.
“What?”
Rebecca stared at me.
“Another child?”
Sam continued.
“A boy.”
I gripped the window frame.
“Anna told me she had a daughter.”
“I’m telling you what your father told me.”
“Whose son?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Dad?”
“He believed the boy was yours.”
My knees weakened.
“That’s impossible.”
Rebecca whispered, “Dad?”
I turned toward her.
Sam said, “Thomas said the boy had been born before Rebecca.”
Everything inside me stopped.
Before Rebecca.
Anna and I had only been together a little over two years.
There had never been another pregnancy.
At least none I knew about.
“Sam, I think my father misunderstood.”
“Maybe.”
“What proof did he have?”
“Ruth showed him a photograph.”
My heart pounded.
“A photograph of what?”
“A boy of about fourteen.”
Fourteen when Rebecca was twelve.
Two years older.
Impossible.
Unless the photograph had not been current.
Unless dates had been misunderstood.
Unless another lie waited beneath the first.
“What was his name?”
Sam hesitated.
“Daniel.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Then Rebecca spoke behind me.
“What did he say?”
I turned.
Her face had gone pale.
“Rebecca?”
“What name?”
I lowered the phone.
“Daniel.”
She stared at me.
“No.”
“What?”
“Mom had a picture.”
My blood went cold.
“What picture?”
“In her dresser.”
“Of who?”
“A boy.”
The room seemed to narrow.
Rebecca’s voice dropped.
“She told me he was the son of a friend who died.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Boy in Carol’s Hidden Photograph Forced Anna to Reveal the One Piece of Her Past She Had Never Told Me
Three Days Before Carol Died, She Asked Me to Find the Woman I Had Spent Forty Years Forgetting
Part 7 of 35
