Nobody spoke for several seconds.
My youngest sat down hard.
“She can't be.”
I put a hand on her shoulder.
“Why?”
“Because Anna knows me.”
“That's what Daniel said.”
“She knows all of us.”
My son frowned.
“How?”
“She has asked questions.”
“What kind?”
My youngest stared at the table.
“She once asked whether my mother was still alive.”
My heart stopped.
“When?”
“About a year ago.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“Then what?”
“She said nothing.”
I looked at the hospital record.
Anna.
A temporary name.
My handwriting.
A child I had mourned for twenty-four years.
A woman my youngest saw every week.
My oldest whispered, “Does she look like Mom?”
My youngest thought about it.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Her eyes.”
I sat down.
For years, I had looked at my children and never questioned why one particular shade of brown had appeared in all three.
Now another face was somewhere nearby carrying the same eyes.
My son asked, “Does she know Dad?”
“I don't think so.”
“What about Daniel?”
“She knows his name.”
I looked up.
“How?”
“She once mentioned a man who helped her family.”
My oldest covered her mouth.
“She knows.”
My youngest nodded.
“Maybe.”
I wanted to call Anna.
Then I stopped.
If she truly was my daughter, she had already spent twenty-four years without me.
I couldn't walk into her life because a bank document had suddenly told me I was entitled to answers.
My son seemed to understand.
“We need proof first.”
“Yes.”
My oldest looked at the hospital record.
“DNA.”
I nodded.
Daniel called again.
I answered.
“We think we've found her.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“Her name is Anna Bell.”
Silence.
Then Daniel said, “She uses that name.”
“Is she my daughter?”
“Yes.”
The confirmation hurt.
Even though I had already known.
My youngest closed her eyes.
“What does she know?”
“She knows she was adopted.”
“Does she know I'm her mother?”
“No.”
“Then why does she ask about me?”
“Because she has spent years searching.”
I felt my throat tighten.
“Why didn't she find me?”
“Your husband made sure she couldn't.”
My son asked, “How?”
“Records were altered.”
“Hospital records?”
“Some.”
“Birth records?”
“Some.”
My oldest looked furious.
“How much did he control?”
“Enough.”
I turned away.
There was a strange cruelty in hearing that word.
Enough.
Enough to steal a child.
Enough to poison memories.
Enough to make me question myself.
Enough to keep my daughter alive but hidden.
I asked Daniel, “Why now?”
“Because Anna recently discovered the name on her original hospital bracelet.”
My youngest whispered, “My mother.”
“Yes.”
“Does she know Mom's name?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what is she doing?”
“Looking.”
My son looked at me.
“She may come to us.”
Daniel said, “Not if your father reaches her first.”
I felt the fear return.
“Where is she?”
Daniel gave us an address.
My youngest recognized it immediately.
“That's near my office.”
I looked at her.
“You see her often.”
“Yes.”
“Then don't tell her anything.”
She looked hurt.
“Why?”
“Because we don't know what she has been told.”
Daniel agreed.
“Your mother is right.”
My youngest nodded reluctantly.
The next morning, I went to the hospital where Anna had supposedly been born.
The records office was small.
An elderly clerk searched the archives.
After twenty minutes, she returned with a file.
The original birth record was incomplete.
The mother's name was mine.
The father's name was blank.
The child was listed as deceased.
But beneath that was a handwritten correction.
*Status disputed.**
My heart stopped.
“Who wrote this?”
The clerk didn't know.
“Can I copy it?”
“Yes.”
We took photographs.
Then the clerk noticed another notation.
“There's an attached document.”
She opened it.
A transfer of custody.
Signed by a doctor.
And witnessed by Daniel.
My son looked at me.
“So Daniel knew from the beginning.”
“Yes.”
The document named the person who had taken temporary custody of Anna.
The same pediatrician Daniel had mentioned.
But there was a second signature.
My former mother-in-law.
I stared.
“She helped save her.”
The clerk looked at us.
“Is there a problem?”
“No.”
I folded the copy.
Outside, my youngest sat in the car.
“I feel sick.”
“I know.”
“What if she hates us?”
“Then we let her.”
My oldest looked at me.
“You'd really do that?”
“Yes.”
My son nodded.
“That might be the first thing we can give her.”
“What?”
“A choice.”
That afternoon, Anna appeared at my youngest daughter's workplace.
She didn't approach her.
She stood across the lobby.
Watching.
My youngest called me.
“Mom.”
“What happened?”
“She is here.”
My heart began pounding.
“Don't move.”
“I won't.”
“Is she alone?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know you're looking at her?”
“Yes.”
A few seconds passed.
Then my youngest whispered, “She's walking toward me.”
I wanted to tell her to run.
Instead, I said, “Let her come.”
Anna stopped a few feet away.
My daughter remained on the phone.
“Hello,” Anna said.
My youngest answered.
“Hi.”
“I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Your mother.”
My youngest looked toward the window.
“What about her?”
“Is she really Margaret Hart?”
My youngest's eyes filled with tears.
I closed my eyes.
Anna continued.
“I've been looking for her.”
My youngest couldn't speak.
Anna studied her face.
Then she said something that made my daughter cover her mouth.
“You look exactly like me.”
The call ended.
My youngest stood frozen.
Anna turned and walked away.
I called her immediately.
She answered.
“What do I do?”
I swallowed.
“Nothing.”
“Mom.”
“Nothing until she chooses.”
That evening, a knock came at our door.
I knew before opening it.
Anna stood on the porch.
She looked at me.
Not like a stranger.
Not quite like a daughter.
Like someone trying to decide whether a face from an old photograph could really belong to her.
“Are you Margaret?”
“Yes.”
She held a small envelope.
“I found this.”
She handed it to me.
It was an old photograph.
My mother holding a newborn.
On the back was a sentence.
*One day, she will come home.**
Anna looked at me.
“Was she me?”
I couldn't lie.
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
“Then why did you let me go?”
I felt every answer fail.
“I didn't.”
She shook her head.
“That's what everyone says.”
“I believed you died.”
“Who told you?”
“My husband.”
She looked toward the street.
Then back at me.
“My father?”
I nodded.
Anna stepped backward.
“Then I think we need to talk.”
I opened the door.
“Come in.”
She crossed the threshold.
My youngest stood behind me.
Anna looked at her.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Anna whispered:
“I think I've been looking for both of you.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: Anna Finally Heard the Truth About Her Disappearance, but One Question About My Husband Forced All Four Children Into the Same Dangerous Conversation
The Last Call Ended Differently Than Any of Us Expected, and I Finally Heard What My Children Had Been Trying to Tell Me
Part 15 of 30
