Chapter 9
Finding Elaine Mercer took less than twenty-four hours.
That was the cruelest part.
For nearly forty years, Daniel had been told his origins were unknowable.
One private investigator found her in a day.
She lived in Oregon under the name Elaine Mercer Hale.
Sixty years old.
Widowed.
Retired elementary school secretary.
No other children.
Daniel stared at the investigator’s report.
“No other children?”
Melissa shook her head.
“None listed.”
He closed his eyes.
“She lost me and never had another baby.”
We did not know whether that was connected.
But Daniel carried the possibility like a weight.
He wanted to fly to Oregon immediately.
I told him not to appear at a stranger’s door with forty years of trauma.
For once, he listened.
Melissa contacted Elaine through an attorney.
Elaine agreed to a video call.
But only with Daniel.
He asked me to sit nearby.
I did.
The screen connected at 4:00 p.m.
Elaine appeared.
Gray-streaked brown hair.
Thin face.
Gentle eyes.
The moment she saw Daniel, she stopped breathing.
He did too.
Neither spoke.
Then Elaine covered her mouth.
“Oh.”
Daniel’s eyes filled.
Elaine whispered, “David.”
Daniel broke.
Not loudly.
His shoulders simply folded inward.
“I’m Daniel.”
“I know.”
She was crying now.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For staring.”
“It’s okay.”
“You look so much like him.”
Daniel pressed his hands together.
“I was told you’re my mother.”
Elaine closed her eyes.
“I wondered if this day would ever come.”
He stared.
“You knew I was alive?”
“Not until last year.”
My head snapped up.
Daniel leaned toward the screen.
“What happened last year?”
“A woman contacted me.”
“Who?”
Elaine hesitated.
“Diane Carter.”
Everything inside me turned cold.
Daniel’s face hardened.
“My mother?”
Elaine flinched at the word.
“I suppose she was.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That there was a possibility the baby I lost had survived.”
“Lost?”
Elaine began shaking.
“The hospital told me you died.”
Daniel looked away.
For several seconds he could not speak.
“What did they say happened?”
“Heart failure.”
Michael’s condition.
Charles had apparently used the medical problem of another newborn to support the lie.
“They never let you see the body?”
“No.”
“Funeral?”
“My father arranged everything.”
“Your father knew Charles Whitmore?”
“Charles paid him.”
Daniel stared.
“What?”
“My father was an alcoholic.”
Her voice carried no emotion now.
“He owed money. Charles gave him enough to leave the state.”
“Did your father know I was alive?”
“I believe so.”
Daniel looked sick.
Elaine continued.
“I spent years believing I had caused your death somehow.”
“You were twenty-one.”
“I was a mother.”
Her voice cracked.
“That doesn’t care how old you are.”
Daniel cried.
I turned away to give him the illusion of privacy.
“What happened with David?” he asked.
Elaine smiled sadly.
“He was kind.”
Daniel looked at the old photograph Diane had given him.
“Were you going to marry?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know about me?”
“Yes.”
“Was he happy?”
Elaine laughed through tears.
“He bought a baseball glove.”
Daniel smiled for the first time.
“I hate baseball.”
Elaine laughed harder.
“So did he.”
That laugh nearly destroyed me.
Somewhere inside all this horror was the ghost of a young couple who had once been excited about their baby.
“What did Diane want last year?” Daniel asked.
Elaine’s smile disappeared.
“She wanted me to sign something.”
“What?”
“A confidentiality agreement.”
Daniel sat back.
“She found you and tried to silence you?”
“She said she was protecting you.”
“Did she tell you where I was?”
“No.”
“Did she show you a photograph?”
Elaine shook her head.
“I refused to sign.”
“What happened?”
“She left.”
Daniel’s face became hard.
That was the final betrayal.
Even one year ago, Diane could have told him.
Instead she had tried to bury the truth again.
Elaine agreed to DNA testing.
The result confirmed maternity at 99.99 percent.
Daniel flew to Oregon two weeks later.
I did not go.
Not because he didn’t ask.
Because Emma needed me.
And because whatever happened between Daniel and his biological mother belonged to them first.
He returned three days later carrying the old baseball glove David Whitmore had bought before he died.
Daniel placed it on our kitchen table.
“He never got to give it to me.”
Emma looked at it.
“Who did?”
“My biological mom kept it.”
Emma frowned.
At five, family trees involving switched babies and secret parentage were beyond reasonable explanation.
I had told her only that Daddy had learned something surprising about his family.
She touched the glove.
“Does it fit?”
Daniel laughed.
“No.”
“It’s tiny.”
“It was for a baby.”
“Babies can’t play baseball.”
“I know.”
She looked at him like he was an idiot.
For the first time in weeks, I laughed.
Then Emma remembered she was still angry.
Her face changed.
She stepped closer to me.
Daniel saw it.
The joy left his eyes.
“Emma?”
She did not answer.
He crouched several feet away.
“I’m not going to come closer.”
She stared at him.
“Okay.”
“I wanted to say something.”
She gripped my hand.
“What?”
“I’m sorry.”
She looked down.
“I did something very wrong at your party.”
“You chained me.”
“Yes.”
“You said I was bad.”
Daniel’s face crumpled.
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t.”
“No.”
He shook his head fiercely.
“You weren’t bad.”
“Grandma said I wasn’t family.”
Daniel wiped his face.
“She was wrong.”
Emma looked at me, then him.
“Are you still my daddy?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
That question hit him like a blow.
He answered carefully.
“Because I have been your daddy since you were born.”
“But you didn’t know at my birthday.”
He could not speak.
Emma had found the heart of it.
DNA did not make him her father.
His choices did.
And on her birthday, he had chosen fear over fatherhood.
Finally he said, “I forgot something important.”
“What?”
“That being your daddy means protecting you.”
Emma thought.
“Mommy protected me.”
“I know.”
“Rachel protected me.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t.”
Daniel began crying.
“No.”
Emma watched him.
Then said, “Maybe you can learn.”
I covered my mouth.
Daniel looked at her.
“I’m going to try.”
She did not hug him.
I was glad.
Forgiveness should never be demanded from a child because an adult cries beautifully.
Daniel began therapy.
Parenting counseling.
Anger management.
Supervised visits.
He accepted every condition.
Diane did not.
She hired an attorney.
Her lawyer sent me a letter demanding grandparent visitation.
Melissa nearly laughed when she read it.
“We have photographs of the chain.”
“Good.”
“We have witness statements.”
“Better.”
“And we have Daniel admitting Diane encouraged the punishment.”
“Best.”
Diane withdrew the petition.
But she was not finished.
One week later, I received a package.
No return address.
Inside was a flash drive.
A note said:
BEFORE YOU DECIDE WHO THE MONSTER IS, WATCH THIS.
I inserted it into an old laptop.
A video file opened.
Security footage.
Date stamped the afternoon of Emma’s birthday.
The camera faced Diane’s kitchen.
I saw Daniel.
And Diane.
They were arguing.
The audio was clear.
Daniel shouted, “Stop saying she isn’t mine!”
Diane answered, “Then explain the blood type!”
Daniel said, “I don’t care anymore.”
I froze.
This did not fit the story Daniel had told me.
Then Diane said, “Claire will leave you if she knows.”
Daniel slammed his hand on the counter.
“She can’t know.”
My heart stopped.
Know what?
Diane lowered her voice.
“She thinks Emma’s birthday party is about Emma.”
Daniel looked toward the backyard.
Then said:
“If the test comes back the way you said it will, I lose everything.”
The video ended.
I stared at the blank screen.
May you like
Daniel had known there might be a DNA test before I ever demanded one.
And whatever he feared losing had not been his daughter.
