Dr. Evans called four days later.
I was in the kitchen making coffee when her name appeared on my phone.
I answered immediately.
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was careful.
“Where?”
“In an archive connected to the old hospital.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“And?”
“The pathology report exists.”
I waited.
“It was never filed under your name.”
My stomach dropped.
“Whose name?”
She told me.
I wrote it down.
Then I stopped.
The name was Margaret Harris.
I drove to Dr. Evans's office that afternoon.
She had printed the report and placed it inside a folder.
“I want you to read this slowly,” she said.
I did.
The tumor was benign.
There was no cancer.
No disease.
Nothing life-threatening.
I looked up.
“Then why hide it?”
Dr. Evans shook her head.
“That isn't the strange part.”
“What is?”
“The tissue sample was logged twice.”
“Meaning?”
“One sample was sent to pathology.”
“And the second?”
“It was removed from the hospital's records.”
I stared at the page.
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
She handed me another document.
A transfer log.
The second sample had been released to an outside laboratory.
The laboratory no longer existed.
But the address did.
I recognized it.
My father's company had once owned the building.
I sat down.
“My father knew.”
“Possibly.”
“Can you tell whether the sample was tested?”
“There is no record.”
I looked at her.
“Then we may never know.”
“Not necessarily.”
She slid another sheet toward me.
A handwritten note had been attached to the transfer.
Keep for genetic comparison if required.
I stared at the sentence.
“Genetic comparison?”
Dr. Evans nodded.
“That's what made me suspicious.”
“Why would anyone need a genetic comparison?”
“I don't know.”
I left her office with copies of every document.
When I reached my car, I called Michael.
He answered immediately.
“What's wrong?”
“Did my father ever mention genetic testing?”
Silence.
“Michael?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“When?”
“After Lily was born.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to make sure she was yours.”
I frowned.
“Of course she is mine.”
“I know.”
“Then why test her?”
Michael hesitated.
“Because there was another child.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“Your father wasn't sure whether the baby transferred from the hospital was Lily.”
I couldn't speak.
Michael continued.
“Two girls were born that day.”
The world went silent.
“Twins?”
“Yes.”
I sat in the car.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because we didn't know where the other child went.”
I closed my eyes.
“All these years…”
“We believed Lily was the only survivor.”
“But there were two.”
“Yes.”
“Where is the other child?”
“We don't know.”
I couldn't breathe.
I drove directly home.
Lily was sitting at the dining table with Jake.
They were sorting through old photographs.
I walked inside.
“Lily.”
She looked up.
“What happened?”
I sat down.
“There may have been another baby.”
She stared.
“What?”
“Another girl.”
Jake looked at me.
“Twins?”
I nodded.
Lily's face went pale.
“How could nobody know?”
“The records were changed.”
“Then how do we know this is true?”
“We don't.”
I showed her the transfer record.
She read it carefully.
Then she looked at me.
“Do you think she survived?”
“I don't know.”
“Could she be alive?”
“Yes.”
The room fell silent.
Lily looked toward the window.
“Then we have to find her.”
I nodded.
But there was something else.
The genetic sample.
If it still existed, it could identify whether Lily was my biological daughter.
And perhaps identify the other child.
I called Thomas.
He came to the house that evening.
When I told him about the twins, he looked genuinely shocked.
“I never knew.”
“Did my father?”
“Yes.”
“Did Margaret?”
Thomas hesitated.
“I believe she suspected.”
“Where is she?”
“She left the country years ago.”
“Where?”
“Canada.”
I stood.
“We need to find her.”
Thomas nodded.
“I'll make inquiries.”
The next morning, he called.
“I found an address.”
Margaret was living in a small town outside Toronto.
She agreed to speak to us by video.
Her face appeared on the screen.
She looked older than when I'd seen her in the hospital basement.
“I knew this day would come.”
I asked the question immediately.
“Were there twins?”
Margaret closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
Lily leaned toward the screen.
“Where is my sister?”
Margaret's expression broke.
“I don't know.”
I felt a sharp pain in my chest.
“But you knew she existed.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Two girls were born.”
“Were they both alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then why was one hidden?”
Margaret looked at me.
“Because someone ordered me to separate them.”
“Who?”
She hesitated.
“Your uncle.”
I gripped the table.
“Robert.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He wanted the trust.”
“But one child was enough.”
“Not according to the trust's original language.”
Thomas looked up.
“What language?”
Margaret answered.
“The beneficiary had to be the surviving child of Susan Miller.”
I stared.
“Surviving child.”
“Yes.”
Margaret continued.
“Robert believed that if both children survived, the trust could become complicated.”
“How?”
“He planned to declare one child legally dead.”
I felt sick.
“So he wanted one of us to disappear.”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
Margaret looked at Lily.
“I don't know.”
I stared.
“What do you mean?”
“The babies were moved during the same night.”
“Where?”
“To different facilities.”
“Who arranged it?”
“Dr. Harris.”
My hands began shaking.
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he was afraid Robert would kill them both.”
The room went quiet.
“Did you keep records?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Margaret looked away.
“I sent them to someone.”
“Who?”
“Your father.”
I stared.
“He died.”
“I know.”
“Then where are the records?”
Margaret's eyes returned to mine.
“He gave them to Michael.”
I turned toward Michael.
He was standing behind me.
His face was pale.
“I don't have them.”
Margaret frowned.
“Yes, you do.”
“No.”
“You carried them out of the hospital yourself.”
Michael shook his head.
“I carried one file.”
“Two files.”
He froze.
I looked at him.
“You have the records.”
“I thought they were destroyed.”
“Where?”
Michael closed his eyes.
“I don't know.”
I stood.
“Michael.”
He looked at me.
“I remember taking them home.”
“Then where did you put them?”
“I was terrified. I moved everything.”
“Where?”
His eyes widened.
“The storage unit.”
“What storage unit?”
“The one we rented after the fire.”
My heart stopped.
“What fire?”
Michael looked at me.
“The fire that destroyed your father's office.”
I stared.
“You told me it was an electrical accident.”
“It was.”
“Was it?”
He didn't answer.
Thomas stood.
“Michael.”
Michael shook his head.
“I don't know.”
We drove to the storage facility that afternoon.
The manager had to search old records.
The unit still existed.
We opened it.
Dust covered everything.
Boxes.
Old furniture.
Files.
A broken desk.
Then, beneath a stack of ruined papers, I found a metal case.
The lock was damaged.
Inside were two folders.
One had my name.
The other had a single word.
Twin.
I opened it.
Inside was a birth certificate.
Not Lily's.
A second child's.
Mother: Susan Miller.
Father: Unknown.
Female.
Date of birth: July 19, 2008.
Then I saw the name.
The child had been registered as Emma Harris.
I stared at the page.
Lily stood beside me.
“That's her.”
I looked at the photograph attached to the file.
A baby.
Then another photograph.
A girl at age five.
Age ten.
Age sixteen.
She had my eyes.
Lily's eyes.
I looked at the final page.
Current location.
The address was in our own state.
My hands went cold.
The other girl hadn't disappeared overseas.
She had been living less than two hours away.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: We Found the Daughter Who Had Been Hidden From Me, but Meeting Her Revealed the One Truth My Family Had Never Been Brave Enough to Say
After Eighteen Silent Years, One Question From My Doctor Made Me Realize My Husband Had Been Hiding More Than Resentment
Part 10 of 12
