Chapter 13 - My Mother’s Secret Pregnancy
I refused to believe a commercial report from Victoria.
We repeated testing independently.
Same result.
My father was not my biological father.
Now evidence suggested Claire might not be my biological mother.
Yet I matched the newborn sample from Bell’s archive.
So who gave birth to me?
Clara knew.
Her face told me before she spoke.
“No.”
“Megan…”
“No more pauses.”
She cried.
“Your mother carried you.”
“Then how is she not genetically my mother?”
An egg donor.
Thirty-two years earlier.
Before modern donor systems were regulated the way they are now.
Claire suffered premature ovarian failure.
Bell recommended donor eggs.
Claire agreed.
That part had been consensual.
But the donor identity was hidden.
“Who?”
Clara whispered:
“My sister.”
Silence.
I laughed because the alternative was screaming.
“You have a sister.”
“Had.”
Her name was Rebecca Lane.
She donated eggs through Bell’s program.
Claire never knew her identity.
Bell later used Thomas Bell’s sperm instead of Richard’s.
Meaning I had genetic parents neither of my legal parents chose knowingly.
Then why did Victoria care?
Because Rebecca Lane had married into the Voss family before dying young.
She was the biological aunt of Glen and Gabriel?
Clara corrected me.
“No blood relation to them.”
Thank God.
Rebecca married Glen’s adoptive uncle.
No biological relation.
But Rebecca held shares in the Voss estate.
Her will left assets to “biological descendants.”
If I was her genetic daughter through donated egg, obscure estate language could create a claim.
I wanted none of it.
Victoria wanted certainty because my existence could affect her inheritance.
Money again.
Always money.
Then we learned Rebecca had not donated anonymously.
Bell forged that.
She had directed that any resulting child be informed at eighteen.
Bell suppressed the notice.
My mother never saw it.
One more stolen truth.
I sat with Glen that night after Ariel slept.
For the first time in weeks, nobody else was in the room.
He said:
“I’m sorry.”
“For which lie?”
“All the ones that were mine.”
That was better than asking forgiveness for crimes other people committed.
I looked at my ring on the table.
“I don’t know whether our marriage survives this.”
“I know.”
“You hid Gabriel.”
“Yes.”
“You hid Clara.”
“Yes.”
“You knew there were irregularities with Ariel’s records.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Fear.”
I almost smiled bitterly.
“At least you learned the family language.”
He looked down.
Then:
“I love you enough to stop using fear as an excuse.”
That mattered.
Not enough.
But something.
Then Ariel called from her room.
We both ran.
Her window was open.
The silver star charm was gone from her pillow.
And on the floor lay a new photograph.
Victoria.
May you like
Standing beside Ariel at the preschool playground.
Taken that morning.
