I barely slept.
The letter stayed beneath my pillow, folded inside the old scarf from my mother. Every few minutes I woke and checked that it was still there.
By morning, I had read it so many times that I knew several lines by heart.
There were references to things I did not understand.
Accounts.
A hospital.
A man named Daniel.
A warning about David.
And one sentence that kept returning to my thoughts.
If they tell you I am dead, do not believe them.
I stared at those words until the letters blurred.
My mother hadn't written that she was leaving.
She hadn't written that she was tired of me.
She hadn't written anything like the story Dad had repeated since I was six.
She had written that someone was lying.
At breakfast, Vanessa acted as though nothing had happened.
She poured coffee into Dad's mug, buttered toast, and asked him whether he had a nine o'clock meeting.
I watched her hands.
They were steady.
Mine weren't.
Dad glanced at me.
“You're quiet.”
“I didn't sleep.”
“Why?”
I looked at Vanessa.
She continued cutting her toast.
“I found something.”
The knife stopped.
Dad noticed.
“What did you find?”
“A letter.”
Vanessa slowly put the knife down.
Dad's face changed.
“From who?”
“Mom.”
He leaned back.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he gave a short, tired laugh.
“Emily, we've been over this.”
“You knew she wrote to me.”
“I knew she sent things.”
“Where are they?”
“There weren't any letters.”
“She said there were.”
Dad's expression hardened.
“Your mother was not well.”
“So she was alive?”
The question landed heavily.
Vanessa looked at Dad.
Dad looked at me.
Neither answered.
I pushed my chair back.
“You told me she left.”
“She did.”
“You told me she didn't want me.”
“I said she made a choice.”
“You told me she was gone.”
“She is gone.”
“That isn't an answer.”
Dad stood.
“Enough.”
“No.”
My voice shook, but I didn't stop.
“Why did Mom write that you were hiding her letters?”
His face went pale.
Vanessa rose too.
“Emily, you're upset.”
“Stay out of this.”
Vanessa flinched.
Dad slammed his hand against the table.
“You will not speak to Vanessa that way.”
I stared at him.
“You defend her every time.”
“She is my wife.”
“And I'm your daughter.”
The silence that followed was worse than shouting.
Dad looked away first.
“Go upstairs.”
I didn't move.
“Where is Mom?”
He closed his eyes.
“Go upstairs.”
I went.
But this time, I didn't shut my door.
I waited until I heard Dad leave for work.
Then I walked into his office.
The door was unlocked.
That frightened me more than if it had been locked.
Dad never left it open.
I searched the desk first.
Nothing.
Then the filing cabinet.
Tax documents.
Insurance.
Old business records.
I opened the bottom drawer.
Empty.
I pulled the drawers all the way out and checked behind them.
Still nothing.
Then I noticed a small scratch on the inside wall of the cabinet.
I touched it.
A false panel shifted.
Behind it was a thin envelope.
My hands began shaking.
I pulled it free.
There were photographs inside.
My mother.
She was younger in every picture than I remembered.
In one, she stood outside a hospital.
In another, she was sitting beside a man I didn't recognize.
On the back of the photograph was a name.
Daniel Mercer.
I had heard the name before.
My mother had once mentioned an Uncle Daniel, but Dad had always said he died before I was old enough to remember him.
I turned over another photograph.
Mom was holding me.
I looked like a baby.
Daniel stood behind her with one hand resting on her shoulder.
There was something about the way Mom looked at him that made me stop.
She looked safe.
Happy.
I placed the photograph on the desk.
Then I found a hospital bracelet.
Rachel Mercer.
The date was eight years ago.
The same year Mom disappeared.
My stomach tightened.
Underneath it was a receipt from Columbus General Hospital.
I read the date.
Then I read it again.
Mom hadn't vanished from our home.
She had been at a hospital.
I heard the garage door open.
Dad.
I shoved everything back into the envelope and returned it to the hidden compartment.
I had barely closed the cabinet when footsteps entered the hallway.
I ran upstairs.
Dad called my name.
I stayed silent.
A minute later, his footsteps came up the stairs.
He stopped outside my room.
“Emily.”
I didn't answer.
The door opened.
He looked at me.
“You were in my office.”
It wasn't a question.
I swallowed.
“No.”
“Don't lie to me.”
I stood.
“You lied first.”
Dad's face became expressionless.
“What did you see?”
“Mom was at a hospital.”
His jaw tightened.
“Where did you get that information?”
“You kept it hidden.”
“Emily.”
“Was she hurt?”
He stepped toward me.
“You have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Did you hurt her?”
His hand froze at his side.
For a moment, I thought he might hit me.
He didn't.
Instead, he turned away.
“Pack a bag.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why?”
“Because I can't keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Managing you.”
I stared at him.
“You're sending me away?”
“I need some space.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
He didn't answer.
Vanessa appeared behind him.
She had already packed a small suitcase.
I looked at it.
“You planned this.”
“No,” Vanessa said.
“You did.”
Dad took the suitcase.
“You're going to the hospital.”
I laughed once because the alternative was crying.
“I'm not sick.”
“You're unstable.”
“I’m not.”
“You attacked Vanessa.”
“I didn't attack her.”
“She told me you did.”
Vanessa lowered her eyes.
That was when I understood exactly what was happening.
The broken bowl had been useful.
It gave them a story.
A frightened girl.
An angry stepmother.
A father who supposedly had no choice.
Dad walked away.
I followed him downstairs.
“Please.”
He stopped at the front door.
I hated myself for saying it.
“Dad, please don't leave me.”
He didn't turn around.
“You'll be safer there.”
“Safer from what?”
His hand tightened around the door handle.
He opened it.
Rain was falling outside.
Cold water blew across the porch.
“I don't know what happened to your mother,” he said.
I stared at him.
It was the first time he had admitted uncertainty.
Then he walked out.
The door closed behind him.
I stood alone in the foyer.
Vanessa remained in the kitchen.
She didn't look sorry.
She looked relieved.
An hour later, she drove me to the hospital.
She left me near the emergency entrance with my bag and a short note.
Your father will contact you when he decides what to do.
No goodbye.
No hug.
Nothing.
I sat beneath the fluorescent lights for almost an hour.
Then a nurse asked why I was there.
I told her my father had left me.
Her expression changed.
She called an administrator.
Questions followed.
Where was my mother?
Where was my father?
Was I afraid to go home?
I answered honestly.
I didn't know where home was anymore.
Then I remembered the letter.
I pulled it from my bag.
As I unfolded it, a second piece of paper slipped out.
I had missed it before.
It was only a small handwritten note.
Find Thomas Mercer.
I stared at the name.
Mercer.
My family name.
I looked at the nurse.
“Do you know someone named Thomas Mercer?”
She frowned.
“Why?”
“Because I think he might know my mother.”
She took the note.
Her eyes moved across the handwriting.
Then she looked toward the administrator.
“I've heard that name.”
My heart started pounding.
“Who is he?”
Before she could answer, an older woman standing near the nurses' station suddenly turned toward us.
She had been watching me.
Her face had gone pale.
She approached slowly.
“Where did you get that?”
I held the paper tighter.
“My mother wrote it.”
The woman stared at me.
“What was your mother's name?”
“Rachel.”
Her lips parted.
She whispered something I could barely hear.
Then she sat down hard in the nearest chair.
“Rachel is alive.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
The woman looked at me with tears gathering in her eyes.
“I thought she was dead.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Denise.”
She looked toward the hallway.
“And if you really are Rachel's daughter, then we need to find Thomas before your father does.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: The Man My Father Said Was Dead Walked Into the Hospital, Carrying Answers That Turned My Childhood Into a Carefully Constructed Lie
The Night My Father Chose His New Wife, One Broken Bowl Became the Beginning of a Lie I Could No Longer Ignore
Part 2 of 20
