Chapter 4 - THE BIRTH CERTIFICATEThere are sentences that alter the temperature of a room.
That one did.
I stared at Ethan across our dining table.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
“You just said she paid someone to stop me learning why she calls me the mistake.”
“I know what I said.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can't.”
My chair scraped backward.
Ethan stood too.
“Savannah.”
“You moved stolen money for my mother.”
“I didn't know it was stolen.”
“You hid a company.”
“For tax consulting.”
“Don't insult me.”
“I was trying to keep things from exploding.”
I laughed.
“You mean you were helping everyone lie to me so I wouldn't get angry.”
His expression softened.
“That's not fair.”
“No. Fair would have been my husband telling me my family was secretly moving money.”
“I made a bad decision.”
“You made hundreds of them. Every day you stayed silent was another one.”
He reached for me.
I stepped away.
“What was she hiding?”
“I only heard pieces.”
“Tell me every piece.”
He stared at the floor.
“Last summer Ryan got drunk at our place.”
“I remember.”
“He said your mother had spent your entire life terrified you'd find your original birth certificate.”
I felt something inside me drop.
“My original?”
“He shut up when I asked what he meant.”
“Did you ask Mom?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“She told me Ryan was drunk.”
“And you believed her?”
“No.”
That answer hurt more.
“You didn't believe her, but you still didn't tell me.”
“She begged me.”
“So?”
“She said it would destroy your father.”
That stopped me.
“My father?”
“I thought maybe there'd been an affair. Maybe Richard wasn't your biological father. I didn't want to blow up your parents' marriage over something Ryan muttered while drunk.”
“My parents' marriage.”
“Yes.”
“What about ours?”
He closed his eyes.
I walked upstairs and locked the bedroom door.
By sunrise, I had made three decisions.
First, Ethan would move out temporarily.
Second, I would find the original birth certificate.
Third, I would stop asking permission to uncover my own life.
Dad agreed to meet me at a coffee shop.
He looked nervous from the moment he walked in.
I didn't bother with small talk.
“Am I your daughter?”
His face collapsed.
That was answer enough.
“Biologically?” I added.
He nodded quickly.
“Yes. Yes, you are.”
“Then what is Mom hiding?”
He stared at his coffee.
“Richard.”
“Don't call me that.”
“What?”
“Dad.”
His eyes lifted.
Despite everything, that almost broke me.
I softened.
“Please.”
He wiped his mouth.
“You were born three weeks early.”
“I know.”
“No. You were told you were.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Your birthday isn't your birthday.”
I actually laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the alternative was screaming.
“What are you talking about?”
“You were born May second.”
“My birthday is May twenty-fourth.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Your mother changed the records.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It will.”
He told me there had been another baby.
A girl.
Born to my mother almost three weeks after me.
My brain refused the math.
“That isn't possible.”
“Not to her.”
I stared.
Then realization arrived slowly.
“You mean Mom didn't give birth to me.”
Dad shook his head.
“No.”
The café sounds vanished.
“You said you're my biological father.”
“I am.”
“Then who is my mother?”
Dad's eyes filled with tears.
“A woman named Rebecca Lane.”
My body went numb.
He told me the story in pieces.
Thirty-one years earlier, before he married Diane, Dad had dated Rebecca for almost two years.
They separated.
Diane entered his life.
Then Rebecca discovered she was pregnant.
Dad tried to help.
Diane found out.
Three weeks after I was born, Diane gave birth to a daughter.
The baby survived only sixteen hours.
Her name had been Savannah.
I stopped breathing.
“No.”
Dad nodded, crying openly now.
“Diane couldn't accept it.”
I pushed away from the table.
“No.”
“She had a breakdown.”
“No.”
“Your biological mother was struggling. She had no family nearby, no money. I was helping both of you.”
“Stop.”
“Diane became obsessed with the idea that losing Savannah and discovering you existed at the same time meant—”
“She took me?”
The question came out in a whisper.
Dad looked destroyed.
“It wasn't kidnapping.”
“You'd better choose your next words carefully.”
“Rebecca signed guardianship papers.”
“Guardianship.”
“Yes.”
“Did she give me up?”
“For what she thought would be six months.”
My stomach turned.
Six months.
Dad continued.
“Diane convinced her you would have stability with us while she got back on her feet.”
“And then?”
“We moved.”
I stared at him.
“We moved because Mom didn't want her to find me?”
Dad didn't answer.
That was enough.
I stood.
He grabbed my wrist.
“I was weak.”
I pulled away.
“You stole someone's child.”
“I told myself I was protecting you.”
“You changed my birthday.”
“Diane did.”
“And you let her.”
“Yes.”
He whispered it.
Just yes.
No excuse.
Maybe that made it worse.
“Where is Rebecca?”
“I don't know.”
“Don't lie.”
“I swear.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Twenty-nine years ago.”
I walked out.
That afternoon Daniel found the first record.
A civil claim filed by Rebecca Lane against my parents nearly three decades earlier.
The case had been sealed.
Withdrawn four months later.
But there was one surviving entry.
A payment.
$25,000.
Made to Rebecca's attorney.
The same attorney whose name appeared in records connected to Whitmore Lifestyle Group.
My mother hadn't been paying someone to hide an affair.
She had been paying someone to keep a thirty-year-old secret buried.
Daniel looked at me carefully.
“Do you want me to find Rebecca?”
I looked at the name on the screen.
Rebecca Lane.
A stranger.
My mother.
Maybe.
“Yes.”
“How far do you want me to go?”
“All the way.”
He nodded.
Then his assistant knocked and entered.
“Sorry to interrupt.”
She handed Daniel a sheet of paper.
He read it.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He looked at me.
“We found Rebecca.”
My heart slammed once.
“Where is she?”
May you like
He hesitated.
“Savannah, she lives forty minutes from you.”
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