We drove home without speaking.
My youngest sat beside me.
She kept looking out the window.
I wanted to tell her everything would be fine.
I didn't.
I had spent too many years using comforting words when I didn't have answers.
When we reached the house, she went upstairs.
My son followed.
My oldest remained in the kitchen with me.
“What do you remember?”
I sat down.
“A hospital.”
“What year?”
“I don't know.”
She waited.
“I was holding a baby.”
Her face changed.
“Me?”
“I think so.”
“What happened?”
“I don't know.”
I closed my eyes.
The memory came in pieces.
White walls.
A blue blanket.
A nurse.
Daniel standing near a vending machine.
My husband arguing with someone.
Then my mother's voice.
“You cannot let him take her.”
I opened my eyes.
My oldest was crying.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“You had another baby.”
The room went silent.
“What?”
She shook her head.
“No. I'm sorry. That's not what I mean.”
“Then what?”
“You were pregnant before me.”
I stared at her.
“I was?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
She looked toward the stairs.
“Before you had me.”
My mind struggled to place the years.
“You never told me.”
“I didn't know how.”
“Why would you know?”
“Dad told me.”
I felt sick.
“What did he say?”
“He said you lost a baby.”
I whispered, “I did.”
The memory returned.
A hospital bed.
A tiny blanket.
A doctor saying something I couldn't hear.
I had believed I had lost the baby.
But now there was another memory.
A nurse saying, “She's alive.”
I stood.
My oldest grabbed my arm.
“Mom?”
“I didn't lose her.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
My youngest came downstairs.
She had heard us.
“What are you talking about?”
I looked at her.
“I think there was something about your birth that I don't remember.”
She went pale.
“Mom.”
“I need to know.”
She sat.
My son came down behind her.
“What happened?”
My oldest explained.
He looked at me.
“Dad told us you lost a baby before us.”
“I remember being pregnant.”
My youngest stared.
“But I don't remember you ever talking about it.”
“Because I thought it ended.”
My son sat beside her.
“Could Dad have lied?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I looked toward the folder.
“Because he wanted something.”
Daniel called.
I answered.
“Tell me about the hospital.”
There was silence.
Then Daniel said, “You remembered.”
“Did I have another child?”
“Yes.”
My youngest closed her eyes.
“Who?”
Daniel hesitated.
“Your mother had a daughter before your oldest sister.”
My oldest looked stunned.
“What?”
“Where is she?”
Daniel's voice became quieter.
“She died.”
I felt relief and grief collide.
“Is that what Dad told us?”
“Yes.”
“Was it true?”
“No.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“She survived.”
My youngest whispered, “Then where is she?”
Daniel said, “That's what your husband has been trying to find.”
My son stood.
“Why?”
“Because she is connected to the trust.”
My oldest stared at me.
“How?”
Daniel explained.
“Your grandfather created the trust before she was born. He added a clause after her birth.”
“What clause?”
“If the child survived, she became the controlling beneficiary.”
My daughter covered her mouth.
“So the person who controls the trust…”
“Is your missing sister.”
My youngest looked at me.
“Mom, who is she?”
I couldn't answer.
I didn't know.
Daniel continued.
“Your husband found evidence that she survived.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“You must.”
“I know who raised her.”
My heart pounded.
“Who?”
Daniel gave me a name.
I knew it.
My oldest knew it.
My son knew it.
It was the woman who had been my youngest daughter's childhood pediatrician.
She had died three years earlier.
But Daniel said something that changed everything.
“She didn't raise the child as her own.”
“She adopted her?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“She was protecting her.”
My youngest stood.
“From Dad?”
“Yes.”
I sat down.
My mind raced.
If the child had survived, why had nobody told me?
Daniel answered before I asked.
“Your husband had already begun building the story that you were unstable.”
“And the baby?”
“He claimed she died.”
“Why?”
“Because if you knew she was alive, you would have fought for her.”
I covered my face.
My children stood around me.
I felt grief for a daughter I had believed dead.
Grief for years I could never recover.
Then my son asked the question none of us wanted to ask.
“Where is she now?”
Daniel was silent.
“Daniel.”
“I found her.”
My heart stopped.
“You know where she is?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“She lives in this country.”
My youngest whispered, “Is she close?”
“Yes.”
“How close?”
Daniel answered.
“About twenty minutes from your house.”
Nobody moved.
My oldest looked at me.
“Mom.”
I couldn't speak.
Then Daniel added:
“She knows who you are.”
My youngest began to cry.
“She knows about us?”
“Yes.”
“Why hasn't she contacted us?”
“Because she believes you abandoned her.”
I closed my eyes.
The cruelty of it was almost impossible to comprehend.
My husband had not only tried to control our money.
He had taken a living child and turned her into a dead one.
He had allowed me to grieve someone who was still alive.
And now that child was grown.
My son asked, “Why bring this up now?”
Daniel said, “Because your husband is looking for her.”
My oldest stood.
“We have to find her first.”
“No,” I said.
Everyone looked at me.
“We don't find her.”
My son frowned.
“Mom?”
“We let her decide whether she wants to find us.”
My youngest wiped her tears.
“But what if Dad gets to her?”
“Then we protect her without forcing her.”
Daniel was silent.
Then he said, “That is exactly what your mother would have said twenty years ago.”
The call ended.
My youngest looked at me.
“Mom, what was her name?”
I didn't know.
Daniel had not told us.
But then my son found an old hospital record inside the folder.
A newborn's name.
A temporary name.
My hands shook as I read it.
The name had been written by me.
I had apparently named her before believing she had died.
My daughter looked over my shoulder.
“What does it say?”
I whispered the name.
“Anna.”
Then my youngest gasped.
“I know someone named Anna.”
I looked at her.
“Who?”
She stared at me.
“Anna Bell.”
“From where?”
“My workplace.”
The room went silent.
My son whispered, “How old is she?”
“Twenty-four.”
I looked at the date on the hospital record.
The age matched.
My youngest took a step backward.
“No.”
My oldest looked at her.
“You know her.”
“Yes.”
“Are you friends?”
My youngest shook her head slowly.
“Not friends.”
“What then?”
She looked at me.
“She is my supervisor.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 15: The Daughter I Had Been Told Was Dead Was Standing Somewhere in My Youngest Child’s Life, and We Had No Idea What She Knew About Us
The Last Call Ended Differently Than Any of Us Expected, and I Finally Heard What My Children Had Been Trying to Tell Me
Part 14 of 30
