Chapter 9 - The Woman Who Raised My Child
Margaret Vale agreed to speak to me the following morning.
Not at her farmhouse.
Not at the hospital.
And certainly not anywhere Richard could reach us.
She chose a small private office belonging to an attorney in Connecticut.
Charlotte insisted on accompanying me.
Samuel arranged transportation.
And for the first time in seven years, I traveled somewhere without asking my husband for permission.
The drive took two hours.
I spent most of it staring through the window.
Every child we passed made my heart ache.
A little boy holding his father's hand outside a bakery.
Two brothers chasing each other across a playground.
A mother kneeling to tie her son's shoes.
Ordinary things.
Things I'd spent seven years imagining.
At eleven fifteen, we entered the attorney's office.
Margaret Vale stood near the window.
She was in her late forties, with dark hair streaked with silver.
She wore a plain navy sweater, jeans, and no jewelry.
Nothing about her suggested the kind of woman who would participate in stealing a newborn child.
But I'd already learned how little appearances meant.
"Eleanor," she said.
I remained in my wheelchair.
"Where is my son?"
Margaret's face tightened.
"He's safe."
"That wasn't my question."
She looked toward Charlotte.
"Before we begin, I want my attorney present."
"He is," Charlotte said.
"And I want this conversation documented."
Her attorney gestured toward a recorder.
"With everyone's consent."
I nodded.
"Record every word."
Margaret sat down.
For several seconds, she studied my face.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
"He looks like you."
My chest tightened.
"Benjamin?"
"He's been called Ethan since he was three days old."
"Why?"
"Because the documents I received said his birth mother had died."
I stared at her.
"What?"
Margaret opened a folder.
"The agency told me he had been born following a fatal motor vehicle accident. I was told his mother had not survived and his father had voluntarily relinquished parental rights."
"My husband signed away my child?"
"That's what the papers appeared to show."
"I was alive."
"I didn't know."
I looked at Charlotte.
Her expression was grim.
Margaret pushed a photograph across the desk.
It showed Ethan standing beside a birthday cake with seven candles.
He had dark brown hair.
A serious expression.
And a crooked little smile.
I reached for the picture.
My fingers trembled so badly that Charlotte had to steady it.
"Does he know he was adopted?"
Margaret nodded.
"He knows I didn't give birth to him."
"Does he know about me?"
"Not until recently."
I looked up sharply.
"What happened recently?"
Margaret folded her hands.
"He started asking questions."
"About what?"
"His parents. His birth. Why there weren't any photographs of him as a newborn."
I touched the picture.
"What did you tell him?"
"That his birth mother loved him, even though she couldn't stay."
I looked down.
For a moment, I hated Margaret.
Not because she'd told him he was loved.
Because she'd been the one there to tell him.
She had celebrated his birthdays.
Held him through fevers.
Read him bedtime stories.
She knew which foods he hated and what made him laugh.
I knew nothing.
Margaret seemed to understand.
"I didn't steal him, Eleanor."
"Then why did Richard pay you?"
Her face drained of color.
"He told me the payments were part of a protected family trust."
"What payments?"
"Money for Ethan's care."
"How much?"
"Twenty thousand dollars a month."
Charlotte made a note.
"For seven years?"
Margaret shook her head.
"At first, the money came through an agency. Later, Richard began sending it through a private company."
"Did you ever question why?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"He told me the child's father had money but wanted to remain anonymous."
I stared at her.
"Did you believe him?"
"Until I found the original birth records."
The room went silent.
"When?"
"Eight months ago."
My heart pounded.
"What did they say?"
Margaret looked directly at me.
"They named you."
I sat forward.
"So you knew."
"I knew something was wrong."
"Eight months," I whispered.
"For eight months, you knew I might be alive."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"I tried to contact you."
"Everyone says that."
Margaret flinched.
"Richard answered."
The words were so simple.
So horrifyingly familiar.
"He came to my house three days after I called his office."
"What did he say?"
"That you were severely mentally ill."
I felt Charlotte tense.
"He said you had tried to harm yourself after the accident. He told me you had already attempted to take Ethan once and that allowing contact could endanger him."
I stared at her.
"Did you believe that?"
"I didn't know what to believe."
"Then why didn't you contact the police?"
"Because Richard showed me what looked like a court order."
Charlotte leaned forward.
"May I see it?"
Margaret opened her folder.
The document bore a court seal.
A judge's signature.
And my name.
Charlotte studied it for almost a minute.
Then her expression changed.
"Where did you get this?"
"Richard gave it to me."
Charlotte turned the paper over.
"Eleanor, this document appears to have been altered."
"What?"
"The docket number format is wrong for the listed court, and I can't verify the judge's signature against the public record."
Margaret covered her mouth.
"Oh, God."
Charlotte looked toward her attorney.
"We need a certified search of the docket before anyone relies on this."
I stared at Margaret.
"Can I see Ethan?"
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then nodded.
"But we need to do it carefully."
I began crying.
"Please."
"He doesn't know the full story. I won't let him be frightened or used as evidence in a war between adults."
I wanted to argue.
Wanted to demand seven years back in a single afternoon.
But then I looked at his photograph.
A little boy who had never chosen any of this.
"You're right," I whispered.
Margaret wiped her eyes.
"He loves airplanes. He wants to be a pilot."
I smiled through tears.
"His grandfather loved airplanes."
"He hates mushrooms."
"So did I when I was little."
"He sleeps with the hallway light on."
I pressed my hand against my chest.
"Why?"
Margaret looked away.
"Because six months ago, a man came to our house while I was away."
My smile disappeared.
"What man?"
"Ethan said the man knew his name. He told him to stop asking questions about his real mother."
I stared at her.
"Was it Richard?"
Margaret shook her head.
"I don't think so."
"Then who?"
She reached into the folder.
And placed a photograph on the desk.
It was taken by the farmhouse security camera.
A tall man stood outside the front door.
Gray jacket.
Dark sunglasses.
A scar beside his left ear.
I recognized him immediately.
Not from my adult life.
From the fragments of memory that had haunted my dreams.
I had seen that face through the rain on Blackwood Mountain.
The night of the crash.
"The driver," I whispered.
Margaret frowned.
"What?"
May you like
I gripped the photograph.
"That's Peter Lawson. Richard told me he died seven years ago."
