I looked at Lisa.
What does this mean?
His eyes filled with tears.
“Keep reading.
My mother’s letter explained everything.
Rebecca was not dead.
My mother had believed that George and I were too young to raise a baby. Without telling me the truth, I had arranged for Rebecca to be adopted by another family.
He told me that my baby was missing because he believed the pain would eventually disappear over time.
I thought that knowing that my daughter was alive somewhere else would destroy me.
My hands started shaking again.
I couldn’t understand how the woman who had held me in her arms while I was crying for my “dead” baby I had known all that time that Rebecca was still alive.
There was more.
Years later, my mother had tried to find her.
He finally got it.
Rebecca had grown up, married, had had her own children, and spent years trying to figure out who her biological mother was.
My mother contacted her.
But he still didn’t tell me.
Near the end of the letter, my mother had written:
Every year I told myself that I would tell you tomorrow. After that morning it became thirty years. Over time, I became more afraid of losing you than ashamed of what I had done.
I lowered the paper.
I was crying so much that I could barely breathe.
“Since when do you know?” I asked my children.
Lisa looked at the others.
“Grandma told us before she died.
I stared at them.
The six?
They nodded.
“It made us promise not to tell you while she was alive,” Lisa said. I was terrified that you could never forgive her.
For a moment, I felt a surge of rage.
Not against my children.
Against my mother.
Against all those lost years.
Against the baby for which I had mourned.
Against the daughter who had aged somewhere without knowing that her mother had never voluntarily delivered her.
Then a thought hit me.
I looked at Lisa.
Is Rebecca alive?
No one responded immediately.
My heart sank.
“Lisa.
He started crying.
Then he looked beyond me.
Towards a closed door on the side of the room.
And whispered:
