Chapter 5 - THE MAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH
My father opened the beige folder.
For the first time since I had known him, his hands were shaking.
He removed a stack of documents.
“I never wanted you to see these.”
I looked at him.
“That's exactly why I need to.”
He handed me the first page.
It was a sworn statement.
Signed by my grandfather.
I read it slowly.
It stated that Margaret had given birth to twins.
One child had been registered.
The second had been transferred to another hospital under emergency circumstances.
My eyes stopped at one sentence.
“Child B was removed from the family record at the request of Gerald Whitmore.”
I looked up.
“You did this?”
My father shook his head.
“My father did.”
“But you knew.”
“Yes.”
“And you helped keep it secret.”
He nodded.
My grandmother closed her eyes.
“Why?”
My father finally sat down.
“Because your grandfather believed the boy would expose everything.”
“What everything?”
“The company.”
I stared at him.
He explained that Margaret had discovered financial irregularities in the family business.
Money had been moved through shell companies.
Property had been transferred.
Several accounts existed that even my father hadn't known about.
Margaret threatened to expose it.
My grandfather responded by taking control of her children.
Evelyn had been adopted into the family.
The other child had been sent away.
And my grandmother had been told that if she spoke publicly, she would never see either child again.
My grandmother whispered,
“I thought both babies were dead.”
My mother looked at her.
“One wasn't.”
“Where?”
My mother didn't answer.
My father did.
“A foster family in Pennsylvania.”
My heart stopped.
“You know where my brother is?”
“We knew where he was.”
“When?”
“About ten years ago.”
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
My father looked at the floor.
“Because he didn't know who he was.”
My grandmother stood.
“You lied to him too?”
My father shook his head.
“I never contacted him.”
My mother whispered,
“I did.”
Everyone looked at her.
“What?”
She looked at me.
“I found him.”
“Where?”
“Philadelphia.”
“When?”
“Ten years ago.”
My heart pounded.
“What was his name?”
She closed her eyes.
“Daniel.”
Grandma whispered,
“Daniel.”
My mother nodded.
“He had been adopted by a couple named Harris.”
I suddenly remembered something.
A name from an old box of family papers.
Daniel Harris.
I had seen it before.
I thought it was unrelated.
“Why did you contact him?”
My mother said,
“Because I wanted to know whether he had inherited Margaret's memories.”
I stared at her.
“You treated him like an experiment.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
She started crying.
“I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That he would come back.”
My grandmother asked,
“And what happened?”
“He didn't believe me.”
My mother wiped her face.
“He thought I was lying.”
“Did you tell him he had a twin sister?”
“No.”
My chest tightened.
“You never told him about me?”
She shook her head.
“Why?”
“Because if he discovered the truth, he could challenge the inheritance.”
My father whispered,
“Brenda.”
She looked at him.
“You're the one who told me to keep it hidden.”
He didn't deny it.
I felt sick.
“So this wasn't about Evelyn.”
My mother shook her head.
“No.”
“What was it about?”
She looked at my daughter.
“Your daughter was born with a claim.”
I didn't understand.
“A claim to what?”
“The Whitmore estate.”
I laughed bitterly.
“My baby doesn't have a claim to your company.”
My grandmother looked at me.
“She might.”
I stared at her.
Margaret, my mother's sister, had supposedly owned the original family assets.
If I was Margaret's daughter—
But I wasn't.
I looked at my mother.
“Wait.”
She didn't move.
“My birth records.”
My mother nodded.
“You're not my biological daughter.”
The room seemed to disappear.
“What?”
My father closed his eyes.
My mother whispered,
“You were Margaret's second daughter.”
I stared at her.
“No.”
Grandma shook her head.
“No.”
My mother nodded.
“Yes.”
I couldn't breathe.
“You raised me.”
“Yes.”
“But I was adopted?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Margaret was gone.”
“Where?”
My mother looked away.
“She died.”
Grandma stared at her.
“When?”
“After giving birth.”
My grandmother began crying.
“That isn't what you told me.”
My mother whispered,
“She died believing both her children had been taken.”
I looked at my daughter.
Everything suddenly made terrible sense.
The resemblance.
The missing records.
The secrecy.
The obsession with controlling my daughter.
My mother hadn't simply been protecting Evelyn.
She had been protecting the family from the possibility that Margaret's bloodline had survived.
I asked the question I was almost afraid to hear answered.
“Who is my biological father?”
My mother looked at my father.
Then at me.
“Your biological father was Samuel Reed.”
Grandma's face changed.
“Samuel?”
“Yes.”
“He was Margaret's husband.”
My mother nodded.
“And he disappeared after Margaret died.”
I whispered,
“Where is he now?”
My father said,
“Dead.”
My grandmother looked at him sharply.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Arizona.”
Grandma shook her head.
“I don't believe you.”
My mother suddenly stood.
“Why?”
“Because Samuel called me twenty-two years ago.”
My mother froze.
My father looked shocked.
“What did he say?”
Grandma looked at me.
“He said one of Margaret's children was still alive.”
My heart raced.
“Which one?”
“He didn't know.”
“Why?”
“Because the records had been changed.”
My father stood.
“This is pointless.”
“No,” I said.
“This is my life.”
Then my daughter began crying.
I held her tighter.
My grandmother came beside me.
“We will find out.”
“How?”
She reached into her bag.
This time she removed an old photograph.
It showed a young man standing outside a hospital.
He was holding a newborn baby.
On the back of the photograph was handwritten:
“Daniel — October 14.”
I stared.
“Is that my brother?”
Grandma nodded.
“I believe so.”
My mother whispered,
“Where did you get that?”
“From Samuel.”
My father stepped backward.
Grandma looked at him.
“He sent it to me twenty-two years ago.”
I stared at the photograph.
There was a man beside the young Samuel.
Someone I didn't recognize.
But I recognized the baby.
Not because I knew him.
Because the baby wore the same distinctive hospital bracelet as my daughter.
I looked at Grandma.
“What does that mean?”
She whispered,
“It means the hospital where you were born wasn't the only place your family kept records.”
She turned the photograph over.
There was an address.
A small town in Pennsylvania.
May you like
And beneath it, one sentence.
“Ask Daniel what happened to the second bracelet.”
