Chương 6
“Then what do you make them based on?”
She looked toward the living room.
Leo was helping the twins stack blocks.
Emma was sitting beside Noah while he colored.
“I look at whether someone keeps showing up.”
The words stayed with me.
Because that was the one thing I had always been good at.
Showing up.
Even when I did not know what I was doing.
Even when I was afraid.
Even when I was tired.
That night, after the children fell asleep, I sat at my kitchen table with bills spread around me.
The math was ugly.
Rent.
Food.
Utilities.
Clothing.
School supplies.
Everything added up faster than my paycheck.
I rubbed my face.
For the first time since finding the envelope, I allowed myself to admit something I had been avoiding.
The truth had given me a chance.
It had not given me a solution.
My phone rang.
The number was unknown.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“Hello?”
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
“Arthur Vance?”
The voice was older.
Female.
Careful.
“Yes.”
“This is Rebecca Hale.”
I sat up.
The name meant nothing.
“I’m sorry, who?”
A pause.
Then she said something that made every sound in my apartment disappear.
“I was your sister’s caseworker in 2004.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
“What sister?”
“The one they told you died.”
My heart stopped.
“I’m sorry?”
“She didn’t die.”
The room felt smaller.
“Who are you?”
Another pause.
Then the woman whispered.
“My name is Rebecca.”
“I was there when Sarah was placed.”
I looked toward the hallway where five children slept.
“I know about the records.”
The silence after that was worse than anything else.
Because I knew exactly what it meant.
Someone else had been waiting.
Someone else had known the truth.
And they were finally ready to talk.
I did not speak for several seconds.
Not because I did not have words.
Because suddenly there were too many.
Questions that had lived quietly inside me for twenty-two years started pushing forward all at once.
Where had she been?
Why had nobody told me?
Who decided I was better off not knowing?
Why was everyone always making choices for children who had no voice?
“Arthur?”
Rebecca’s voice pulled me back.
“I’m here.”
“You should not talk about this over the phone.”
“Why?”
“Because phones are not private.”
I looked around my apartment.
The children were asleep down the hallway.
The refrigerator hummed.
The clock above the sink ticked loudly.
“I need answers.”
“I know.”
“You said Sarah was alive.”
“Yes.”
“You said you were there.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what happened.”
A long pause followed.
When she finally spoke, her voice had changed.
Not colder.
Older.
Like she had been carrying the memory too long.
“I made a mistake.”
I tightened my grip around the phone.
“What kind of mistake?”
“The kind that looks small when you are twenty-eight and working sixty-hour weeks inside a broken system.”
The answer bothered me because it sounded human.
I wanted a monster.
A person I could blame.
A person who made one terrible decision and ruined everything.
Instead, I got a tired voice from the past.
A person who sounded like she had been regretting something for decades.
“I don’t understand.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I stood from the table.
“I don’t think you do.”
The words came out sharper than I intended.
“My entire family disappeared.”
“I know.”
“I spent my whole life thinking I was the only one left.”
“I know.”
“My foster father died without ever getting to see the family he spent years searching for.”
Silence.
That was the first time she did not answer.
And somehow that hurt more.
“Rebecca.”
“I’m sorry.”
I closed my eyes.
I hated those words.
Not because they were meaningless.
Because sometimes they were the only words people had left after causing damage.
“I need to see you.”
“You can.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“I’ll text you an address.”
“No.”
The answer surprised both of us.
“No?”
“I need you to tell me one thing first.”
“What?”
“Did Evelyn Sterling know?”
The silence came instantly.
Too instantly.
My stomach dropped.
“You paused.”
“Arthur—”
“Did she know?”
Rebecca exhaled slowly.
“Yes.”
The room felt colder.
“How long?”
“She knew from the beginning.”
I sat back down.
The chair scraped against the floor.
“From the beginning of what?”
“From the day your family’s case was opened.”
I stared at the papers scattered across the table.
Bills.
Court documents.
A child support information sheet Karen had left.
All the ordinary paperwork of a life that had suddenly become connected to something much bigger.
“How?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Because the original family search found your grandmother.”
I stopped breathing for a moment.
“My grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“She was alive?”
“Yes.”
The word hit harder than I expected.
There had been another person.
Another possible home.
Another person who could have taken us.
“Why didn’t I know?”
“I told you.”
Her voice cracked slightly.
“The records were changed.”
I stood again.
“Changed by who?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“But you know something.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “The department was under pressure.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
A pause.
“But it is the beginning of one.”
I wanted to be angry.
I was angry.
But underneath it was something worse.
A childlike feeling I hated admitting.
The feeling of wondering if I was finally close to something I had wanted my whole life.
“Your grandmother had health problems,” Rebecca continued.
“She could not take all five children immediately.”
“So?”
“So the recommendation was temporary placement while relatives were evaluated.”
My hands curled into fists.
“That is not what happened.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“They decided keeping siblings together would create financial strain.”
I laughed once.
It was not because anything was funny.
It was because sometimes the truth was so cruel it sounded ridiculous.
“Financial strain.”
“Yes.”
“The same phrase they used today.”
“Yes.”
The connection sat between us.
May you like
Twenty-two years.
Different children.
