“So you kept this from me for fifty years?” I whispered.
Robert’s eyes filled with tears.
“It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.”
But there was even more.
Robert had tried to find my daughter in secret during the 1990’s.
He finally managed to locate Eleanor Mitchell.
She refused to allow any contact, saying her daughter had been told her biological parents had died.
Robert respected his decision.
But before leaving, he left Eleanor his contact details and an old photograph.
“In that photograph my scar could be seen,” Robert explained.
Suddenly, the Facebook comment made sense.
The woman had inherited Eleanor’s belongings after her death.
Among them was a photograph of Robert.
And a letter.
Since Robert had never mentioned my identity in that letter, the woman assumed that he must be her biological father.
I immediately told our granddaughter to contact her.
Three days later, that woman came to our house.
Her name was Rebecca.
The moment he walked through the door, I felt my legs failing me.
I had my mother’s eyes.
My sister’s smile.
She even had the same little habit of rubbing her thumbs against her fingers when she was nervous.
Rebecca also stared at me.
For several seconds, neither said a single word.
Then he whispered:
“Are you Margaret?”
I nodded.
She started crying.
“So… are you my mother?”
We finally got a DNA test.
When the results came, there was no mystery left.
Rebecca was my biological daughter.
Robert had spent decades protecting a secret that he should never have hidden from me, but at the same time he had tried to make sure, from a distance, that she was okay.
