Chapter 3: The Secret My Mother Never Wanted Him to Discover
I didn't answer immediately.
Dad sat beside me on the sofa, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled to his elbows. The notebook rested open on his knee.
Outside, rain began tapping against the windows.
The birthday cake sat abandoned in the dining room, its pink frosting slowly drying beneath the overhead lights.
I stared at my hands.
"Mom said you weren't my real dad.""
Dad went completely still.
"She said you married her because you felt sorry for me. She said my real father didn't want me, and that's why he left me.""
Dad's face had lost all its color.
"When did she tell you this?""
"Lots of times.""
"How many times, sweetheart?""
"I don't know.""
"Was it this year? Last year?""
I shrugged.
"She started when I was little.""
Dad put the notebook down.
He rubbed both hands over his face, then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
For a long moment, he looked at the floor.
I had never seen him so quiet.
"Emily," he finally said, "I need you to listen carefully. I have been your father since the day you were born. Nothing your mother says can change that.""
I nodded, but the words didn't fit inside me properly.
"If that's true," I whispered, "why does she love Madison more?""
Dad turned toward me.
I watched him struggle to answer.
He opened his mouth, closed it, then gently brushed my hair away from my eyes.
"I don't know, sweetheart. But whatever her reasons are, they have nothing to do with whether you deserve love.""
I wanted to believe him.
I really did.
But when a person you love tells you something cruel often enough, it starts to sound like the truth.
Dad seemed to understand that.
He picked up the notebook again.
"Can I keep reading?""
I nodded.
He turned several pages, stopping at entries marked with dates from the previous summer.
The first one made his jaw tighten.
June 4. Mom said I wasn't allowed to call Grandma because Grandma always asks too many questions. She said Grandma doesn't need to know everything that happens in our house.
He read another.
June 12. Mom took the birthday card Grandma sent me and said I didn't deserve the money inside. She gave it to Madison because Madison had been good.
Dad's fingers froze on the page.
"Your grandmother sent you money?""
I nodded.
"She sent twenty dollars for my birthday.""
"When?""
"June.""
Dad looked up.
"June?""
I shook my head.
"No. That was for my birthday last year. This year she sent money in October. Mom said I had to use it for school things.""
He stared at me.
"Did you?""
I hesitated.
"I bought the notebook.""
Dad looked down at the blue cover.
Then he looked at the entry again.
"Emily, where is the card?""
"I don't know. Mom took it.""
He sat back slowly.
My grandmother, Margaret, lived three states away. She called every Sunday evening, and Dad always put her on speaker so Madison and I could talk to her.
Or at least, that was what I remembered from when I was younger.
For the past year, Grandma's calls had become less frequent. Whenever I asked why she hadn't called, Mom said Grandma was busy.
Sometimes Mom claimed Grandma had asked to speak only with Madison.
Other times, she told me Grandma had forgotten my birthday.
I had cried about that once.
Mom had laughed and said, "Now you know how it feels when people don't care enough to remember you.""
Dad looked as if he had just been struck.
"Have you spoken to Grandma recently?""
"Not since summer.""
"Why not?""
"Mom says Grandma doesn't want to talk to me anymore.""
He closed the notebook.
Then he took his phone from his pocket.
"What are you doing?"" I asked.
"I'm calling your grandmother.""
My stomach tightened.
"Please don't tell her I said anything.""
Dad turned toward me.
"Why?""
"Mom said Grandma would be angry if I made trouble.""
He reached for my hand.
"Emily, you are not making trouble. You are telling the truth about things that happened to you.""
He dialed the number.
I listened to the phone ring.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a woman's familiar voice answered.
"Daniel? Is everything all right?""
Dad swallowed.
"Mom, I need to ask you something. Have you been trying to reach Emily?""
There was a pause.
"Of course I have. Why?""
"Have you sent her birthday cards?""
"Every year.""
Dad's eyes met mine.
"Every year?""
"Yes. I sent one last week, too. It came back to me.""
He gripped the phone.
"What do you mean, it came back?""
"The envelope was returned. Someone had written that Emily no longer lived at your address.""
Dad stood up so suddenly that the sofa cushion sprang back.
"What?""
"I thought perhaps you'd moved. I've been trying to reach you, Daniel. Your calls go straight to voicemail, and Diane told me you were too busy to speak.""
Dad stared at the wall.
"Mom, I haven't received a single message from you.""
Silence.
Then Grandma's voice changed.
"Daniel, what is happening?""
He looked at me.
I had started crying again.
He walked toward the window, lowering his voice.
"Something is wrong. I need you to tell me everything you've sent the girls over the past two years. Every card.
Every letter. Every gift.""
Grandma began to cry.
"I don't understand. Diane told me Emily didn't like my gifts. She said Emily asked her to return the money because she didn't want anything from me.""
Dad closed his eyes.
"That's not true.""
"I sent her a necklace for her ninth birthday. A little silver one with a heart. It was my mother's. I wanted Emily to have it.""
My hand flew to my throat.
I remembered that necklace.
Or rather, I remembered seeing it.
Three days before my birthday, I had walked into Mom's bedroom looking for a hairbrush. A small velvet box sat open on her dresser.
Inside was a silver heart necklace.
I had touched it with one finger.
Mom appeared in the doorway and snatched the box away.
"That's Madison's," she said.
"But it has my name on the card.""
She slapped the card out of my hand.
"Don't touch things that don't belong to you.""
I never saw the necklace again.
Now I stared at Dad.
"Grandma sent me a necklace?""
He covered the phone with his hand.
"What, sweetheart?""
"A silver heart. I saw it in Mom's room.""
Dad's expression hardened.
He returned to the call.
"Mom, don't send anything else until I call you back. I'm going to find out what happened.""
Grandma was still crying.
"Daniel, is Emily all right?""
He looked at me.
"No," he said quietly.
"I don't think she has been for a long time.""
After he ended the call, he stood motionless by the window.
I had never heard him speak to Grandma like that.
He was always the one who made jokes during Sunday calls. The one who pretended to be offended when she said he had gained weight. The one who asked her about her garden and listened to every detail.
Now he looked like a man trying to put together a puzzle whose pieces had been deliberately scattered.
"Emily," he said, "I need to ask you something difficult.""
I curled my feet beneath me.
"Okay.""
"Has your mother ever told you not to eat? Or made you sleep somewhere other than your bedroom?""
I nodded.
"Where did you sleep?""
"The laundry room.""
His eyes closed briefly.
"How often?""
"When Madison has friends over. Sometimes when Mom says I've been bad.""
"How long do you stay there?""
"Until morning.""
Dad's face tightened.
"Does she lock the door?""
I nodded again.
"Can you get out?""
"Sometimes. There's a little latch, but Mom puts a chair against the door.""
He looked as though he might be sick.
"How long has she been doing that?""
I stared at the carpet.
"I don't know.""
Dad sat beside me again.
"Do you have any more pages about that?""
I nodded.
He opened the notebook to the entries I had marked with tiny stars.
July 9. Mom said I had to sleep in the laundry room because I ate two cookies. I was hungry. I tried to sleep on the folded towels, but the washing machine kept making noises.
July 10. Mom said I wasn't allowed breakfast because I had been rude the night before. I ate crackers from my school bag when she went to the store.
August 3. Madison spilled juice on the floor. Mom said it was my fault because I had left the cup on the counter. I had been upstairs all afternoon.
Dad stopped reading.
He placed the notebook on the coffee table and pressed his hands together.
I could hear him breathing.
"Why didn't you tell me?""
The question came out before he could soften it.
I flinched.
He saw me react and immediately shook his head.
"No, sweetheart. I'm sorry. That wasn't fair. You tried to tell me, didn't you?""
I nodded.
"I called you once.""
"When?""
"When Mom made me sleep in the laundry room in July. I called your office, but she answered your phone.""
Dad's eyes widened.
"She answered my office phone?""
"She said you were busy. Then she told me if I called again, you'd lose your job because of me.""
He stared at me.
I continued in a small voice.
"She said you were working so hard because you had to pay for me. She said I was expensive.""
Dad's face crumpled.
He pulled me into his arms, and this time he didn't try to hide his tears.
"Oh, Emily.""
I held on to him.
"I didn't want you to lose your job.""
He kissed my forehead.
"You could never make me lose my job by asking for help.""
"But Mom said—"
"I know what she said.""
His voice grew firmer.
"And she was wrong.""
For several minutes, we sat together while the rain tapped against the windows.
Then Dad stood up and took out his phone again.
He called someone I didn't recognize.
"Richard? It's Daniel Carter. I need you to come to my house tonight.""
He listened.
"No, this can't wait until Monday.""
Another pause.
"I need legal advice. And I need you to bring someone who understands child welfare.""
My stomach twisted.
"Am I in trouble?"" I whispered.
Dad immediately ended the call and knelt in front of me.
"No. You're not in trouble.""
"Are you sending me away?""
His eyes filled again.
"Never.""
"Is Mom going to come back?""
He took a breath.
"We're going to make sure you're safe. That's what matters right now.""
I nodded, although fear still sat like a stone in my stomach.
Dad went into the kitchen and returned with a glass of milk and a plate of sandwiches. He placed them on the coffee table.
"Eat something for me, okay?""
I picked up half a sandwich.
My hands were shaking so badly that the bread slipped.
Dad steadied the plate.
"Take your time.""
I ate slowly, watching him move around the living room.
He locked the front door.
He checked the back door.
Then he took the notebook and photographed every page with his phone.
When he reached the final entry, he stopped.
I knew which one it was.
I had written it in the dark two nights earlier, after Mom came into my bedroom and told me something I hadn't known how to understand.
October 16. Mom said Dad isn't my real father. She said he only married her because he felt sorry for me. She said my real father never wanted me, and if I keep making trouble, Dad will send me away.
Beneath that, I had added a question.
If Dad isn't my real father, why does he look at me the same way he looks at Madison?
Dad read it twice.
Then he took out his phone and called another number.
This time, the person answered immediately.
"Daniel? Is everything okay?""
Dad's voice was low.
"Michael, I need you to check something for me.""
"What's going on?""
"I need a copy of Emily's birth certificate. The original paperwork, too. Everything from the hospital and the adoption records—if there are any.""
My heart stopped.
Adoption records.
I didn't know what those were.
Dad glanced at me, then turned away.
"No," he said into the phone.
"I don't think Diane is telling the truth about Emily's parentage.""
He listened.
Then his shoulders stiffened.
"What do you mean the hospital file was amended?""
He went silent.
I could see his fingers tightening around the phone.
"Michael, I need you to tell me exactly what the original record says.""
Another pause.
Dad looked at me.
And for the first time since he had come home, I saw something in his eyes that frightened me more than his anger.
Recognition.
As if he had suddenly remembered a secret he had spent years trying not to think about.
He whispered into the phone, "You're telling me Emily's birth mother signed a document before she disappeared?""
I stared at him.
Dad's mouth went dry.
Then Michael said something that made him grip the back of the sofa.
"Daniel, the name on that document isn't the name Diane told you.""
Dad slowly lowered the phone.
He looked at me.
And I realized that the little notebook had uncovered something much bigger than the cruelty I had endured.
May you like
Something my mother had been hiding from both of us.
Something that might explain why she had spent nine years making me believe I didn't belong in my own family.
