Chapter 2 - The Daughter Before Us
Eleanor refused to speak.
So I took Emma home.
For the first ten minutes of the drive, she said nothing.
Then:
“Did Grandma not want me there?”
I gripped the steering wheel.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Because I’m adopted?”
My throat tightened.
“Being adopted does not make you less mine.”
“I know.”
She sounded too mature.
Six-year-olds should worry about missing teeth and whether Santa remembers apartment numbers.
Not whether their grandmother considers them family.
When Emma finally fell asleep that night, I photographed the old picture and called the only person who might know the name Ava.
My aunt Margaret.
Eleanor’s younger sister.
There was a long silence.
Then Margaret said:
“Where did you get that?”
“Mom’s Thanksgiving table.”
Another silence.
“Rachel, you need to ask Eleanor.”
“I did.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing.”
Margaret exhaled.
“Ava was your mother’s first daughter.”
I sat down.
“My sister?”
“Half-sister.”
I could barely process the word.
Eleanor had me at twenty-eight.
Mark came two years later.
Jennifer three after that.
But before all of us, at seventeen, Eleanor had given birth to a girl.
Ava.
The father was nineteen-year-old Thomas Bell, son of a mechanic.
Eleanor’s parents considered him beneath them.
They sent Eleanor away during the pregnancy.
After birth, they arranged a private adoption.
Except according to Margaret, Eleanor changed her mind.
“She took Ava back.”
“For how long?”
“Almost three years.”
The photograph was taken during that period.
Eleanor and Thomas rented a small house.
For a while, they tried to build a family.
Then Thomas died in an industrial accident.
Eleanor had no money.
Her parents offered one bargain.
Come home.
Give Ava to another family permanently.
Start over.
Eleanor accepted.
I closed my eyes.
“What happened to Ava?”
“She was adopted by a family in Ohio.”
“Did Mom ever contact her?”
“Not that I knew.”
“Why did nobody tell us?”
“Your mother made everyone promise.”
Of course.
Then Margaret said something that bothered me.
“That envelope shouldn’t have been at Thanksgiving.”
“Why?”
“Because your grandfather sealed it.”
My grandfather had died thirteen years earlier.
The cream envelope had apparently been stored with his private estate records.
It carried instructions:
To be delivered to Eleanor only if a descendant of Ava Bell ever appeared within the family.
I stopped breathing.
“How would anyone know?”
“I don’t know.”
Neither did Margaret.
But someone had delivered the envelope.
And whoever did must have believed Emma was connected to Ava.
The next morning, I called Emma’s adoption attorney.
I had always respected the closed portions of her file.
I knew her birth mother’s first name had been Grace.
I knew she had died shortly after Emma’s birth.
I knew the father had not been listed.
Nothing else.
Now I asked whether there was any lawful way to review additional records.
Because Emma was a minor, certain sealed documents could be petitioned if there was a medical or family-history reason.
We started the process.
Then I received a message.
Unknown number.
STOP DIGGING INTO AVA.
Another arrived.
YOUR MOTHER ISN’T THE PERSON WHO SHOULD BE AFRAID.
I stared at it.
Then:
ASK MARK WHY HE WAS THE ONE WHO BROUGHT THE ENVELOPE.
My brother.
Mark had pretended to knock it from beside Eleanor’s plate accidentally.
Apparently it had been there because he put it there.
I called him.
He answered instantly.
“What do you want?”
“Why did you bring Mom that envelope?”
Silence.
Then Mark said:
“I didn’t.”
“Wrong answer.”
He hung up.
Ten minutes later, the security camera at my front gate alerted.
May you like
Mark was outside.
And he was holding another cream-colored envelope.
