Chapter 16 - THE CONFESSION IN THE LOCKED ROOM
Three weeks after the wedding, my mother asked to meet me.
Not at her house.
Not at mine.
At Rebecca's office.
She arrived carrying a small metal box.
Her eyes were red.
Her hands trembled.
She looked at Rebecca.
"Before I say anything, I want legal advice of my own."
Rebecca nodded.
"That's sensible."
My mother had brought an attorney.
A woman named Judith Collins.
We sat across from one another in a conference room that smelled faintly of coffee and polished wood.
My mother opened the metal box.
Inside were old photographs.
Letters.
Copies of family documents.
And a hospital identification bracelet.
My name was written on it.
ANNIE PARKER.
AGE 8.
I stared.
"What is this?"
My mother swallowed.
"Something I've kept for nearly thirty years."
I looked up.
"Why?"
She glanced at her attorney.
Then back at me.
"When you were eight, you became very sick."
I frowned.
"I remember having a fever."
"You were hospitalized."
"I know."
She began crying.
"The doctors ordered several tests."
My stomach tightened.
"And?"
"Some of the results raised questions about information we had provided."
I looked at the bracelet.
"What information?"
She covered her mouth.
My father had hinted at this.
David had warned me.
And now my mother was sitting across from me, unable to say the words.
"Mom."
She looked up.
"Please."
My voice broke.
"Whatever it is, just tell me."
She inhaled shakily.
"The man who raised you may not be your biological father."
Silence.
I stared at her.
"What?"
She began crying harder.
"I wasn't certain."
I shook my head.
"No."
"Annie—"
"No, you're saying you weren't certain?"
She nodded.
"Not until later."
My chest tightened.
I looked toward Rebecca.
Her expression was grave.
I turned back to my mother.
"Does Dad know?"
She closed her eyes.
"Yes."
I stared at her.
"How long?"
She whispered, "Since you were eight."
For twenty-eight years, my parents had kept this possibility from me.
For twenty-eight years, my father had punished me for questioning anything.
For twenty-eight years, my mother had insisted our family was built on honesty.
I could barely breathe.
"Who is he?"
My mother shook her head.
"I don't know for certain."
I stared at her.
"Mom."
"I was young."
Her voice broke.
"Your father and I separated briefly before we married."
I looked at the old photographs.
There was a picture of my mother at twenty-two.
She stood beside a man whose face had been partly cut away.
I picked it up.
"Who is this?"
My mother closed her eyes.
"His name was Daniel."
My heart began pounding.
"Daniel what?"
She looked toward Judith.
Then whispered, "Daniel Mercer."
The name meant nothing to me.
Until Rebecca asked a question.
"Did Daniel Mercer have any connection to the trust?"
My mother began shaking.
Then she nodded.
May you like
And I understood that the secret wasn't simply about who my father might be.
It was about what somebody had spent decades trying to keep hidden.
