The next sentence turned suspicion into rage.
Publicidad
‘I found out before Dad died. Please don’t blame Lily. She didn’t choose any of this. Dad had been sending money to Rebecca for years. I know what that looks like, but please talk to her before you decide what kind of man he was.’
I dropped the letter. “No, no, no.”
I thought Ethan had just given me the truth.
He’d only given me the first piece of it – and one thing he believed was completely wrong.
‘She is Dad’s biological daughter.’
There were copies of bank transfers tucked behind Ethan’s pages.
Daniel had sent Rebecca money for years.
Publicidad
Hundreds at first.
Then thousands.
Money I remembered arguing about.
‘We can’t afford the specialist camp Ethan wants.’
Daniel had sent Rebecca money for years.
‘We need to be careful this month.’
‘The roof can wait.’
Apparently Rebecca couldn’t.
“While I was counting grocery coupons, you had another daughter?”
I said it to Daniel’s photograph.
Money I remembered arguing about.
Publicidad
Then I threw the photograph across the room.
It didn’t make me feel better.
The next morning, I checked the transfers.
Every one of them was real.
You had another daughter?
I started with the oldest.
- Three hundred.
- Then five hundred.
- Then eight.
By the time Lily was ten, the payments were almost monthly.
Statement after statement stretched across nearly eighteen years.
By noon, I had three pages of dates, amounts, and accounts.
Publicidad
The numbers weren’t the part I needed anymore.
It didn’t make me feel better.
I needed Rebecca.
So I called the transplant coordinator. “My name is Laura C. My son was Ethan C.”
There was a pause.
“Yes. I remember.”
“I need Rebecca’s contact information.”
Another pause.
I needed Rebecca.
Publicidad
“I’m sorry?”
“The mother of the girl who received Ethan’s heart.”
“I’m afraid I can’t provide that.”
“She came to his funeral. She gave me a letter from my son.”
“I understand, but I can’t release the recipient family’s private information.”
“Even if I know her name?”
I need Rebecca’s contact information.
“That doesn’t change our privacy rules.”
I stood up and started pacing.
“Can you call her?”
Publicidad
“I can pass along a request for contact.”
“How long will that take?”
“I can’t promise she’ll respond.”
She gave me a letter from my son.
“She found me. Why can’t I find her?”
“No, you don’t. She walked up to me at my son’s funeral, handed me something that blew apart everything I knew about my husband, and disappeared.”
“I’m very sorry.”
I closed my eyes. “Just tell her I need to speak to her.”
“I can do that.”
