PART 18 — THE TRUTH ABOUT SCOTT
“No.”
The word came from me so quietly I barely heard it.
Rebecca still had Thomas’s hospice call on speaker.
“Thomas, say that again.”
His breathing crackled through the phone.
“Scott is Raymond’s son.”
Rebecca covered her mouth.
I shook my head.
“That isn’t possible.”
But after the last two days, I knew better than to trust that sentence.
“Scott was born six years after Rebecca.”
“I know.”
“Daniel was his father.”
Thomas was silent.
“Thomas.”
“Daniel raised him.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Another pause.
“No, Maggie.”
My legs weakened.
“Daniel wasn’t Scott’s biological father.”
I sat.
Memories came at me without permission.
Scott’s birth.
Daniel crying when the nurse placed him in his arms.
Raymond bringing flowers.
My mother standing beside my hospital bed.
No.
Not again.
“There was nothing between Raymond and me then.”
“I know.”
I froze.
Rebecca stared at the phone.
“Then how could Raymond be Scott’s father?”
Thomas coughed.
“He isn’t your biological son, Maggie.”
Everything stopped.
I did not cry.
I did not speak.
For several seconds, I couldn’t even understand the sentence.
Then I whispered,
“I gave birth to Scott.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Maggie—”
“I remember.”
“You gave birth to a boy.”
My heart began pounding.
“What does that mean?”
Thomas’s voice weakened.
“The baby you delivered didn’t survive.”
I stood so fast the chair struck the wall.
“No.”
Rebecca grabbed my arm.
I pulled away.
“No!”
A nurse’s voice came through the phone.
“Mr. Reed needs to rest.”
“No. Please.”
My voice broke.
“Thomas, don’t stop now.”
He breathed slowly.
“Your son lived less than two hours.”
I pressed both hands against my mouth.
“No.”
“Your mother was terrified losing another baby would make you start asking questions about Rebecca.”
My knees gave way.
Rebecca caught me.
This time I didn’t pull away.
“She arranged a replacement.”
I could barely breathe.
“A replacement?”
The word sounded monstrous.
Thomas continued.
“A baby boy had been born at St. Agnes three days earlier.”
I stared at nothing.
“His mother?”
“A young woman named Evelyn Marsh.”
“Was she told he died too?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Seven mothers.
Seven babies.
Scott.
One of them had been my son.
Not biologically.
But mine.
Forty-eight years of scraped knees.
School lunches.
Christmas mornings.
Arguments.
Birthdays.
A mother is not created by blood alone.
I knew that because Thomas had raised Rebecca.
And because whatever Scott had done to me, I had raised him.
“Why Raymond?”
Rebecca asked.
Thomas answered.
“Evelyn Marsh told St. Agnes Raymond was the father.”
Rebecca sank into a chair.
So Scott and Rebecca shared Raymond.
But Scott and I shared no blood at all.
I thought I would feel differently.
I didn’t.
I was furious with him.
Betrayed by him.
But he was still my son.
That might have been the cruelest part.
Love did not disappear just because truth arrived.
“Does Scott know?” I asked.
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
At least one lie hadn’t been his.
“Did Daniel know?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
“Did he know from the beginning?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he accept Scott?”
Thomas was quiet.
Then said, “Guilt.”
I frowned.
“Guilt for Rebecca?”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
“Daniel helped arrange the switch.”
My stomach turned.
“He helped my mother?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to hate a dead man.
I wanted him alive just long enough to ask him why.
Rebecca knelt beside me.
For several seconds, we simply looked at each other.
Then she reached for my hand.
The daughter I had never raised was holding me while I learned the son I had raised had been stolen from another woman.
“Is Evelyn Marsh alive?” I asked.
Thomas didn’t answer immediately.
“Thomas?”
“Yes.”
My breath caught.
“Where?”
“Fairview.”
Rebecca looked at me.
Ninety minutes.
All these lives had been circling one another within miles.
“Does she know Scott is alive?”
“No.”
Another mother.
Another woman who had spent nearly five decades believing her baby died.
I thought about telling Scott.
Then imagined another woman hearing the truth.
No.
Not over a telephone.
Not through gossip.
Not without proof.
“Do we have proof?”
“The amendment packet contains St. Agnes records.”
“DNA?”
“No.”
“Then we verify before telling anyone.”
Evelyn Shaw nodded.
“Exactly.”
Thomas’s breathing became rougher.
Rebecca leaned toward the phone.
“Dad, rest.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“One more thing.”
I almost laughed through my tears.
There was always one more thing.
“What?” Rebecca asked.
“The photograph.”
“Graduation?”
“Yes.”
“The amendment is behind it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody looks behind happy memories.”
Rebecca began crying.
“Dad.”
“I needed it somewhere safe.”
“Why not tell me?”
“Because I wanted you to have a life outside this.”
She wiped her face.
“You’re impossible.”
Thomas laughed weakly.
“I know.”
Then the nurse took the phone.
“He needs to rest now.”
Rebecca whispered, “Tell him I’m coming.”
“I will.”
The call ended.
Silence filled Richard’s hospital room.
I looked at Rebecca.
“Go.”
“What?”
“Go to Thomas.”
“But the amendment—”
“Can wait.”
She stared at me.
“He’s your father.”
Her face crumpled.
Not biological.
But father.
The distinction mattered less every minute.
Rebecca hugged me.
It happened so suddenly I froze.
Then my arms went around her.
Forty-two years late.
No music.
No perfect words.
Just my daughter crying against my shoulder.
When she pulled away, she whispered, “Come with me.”
“I will.”
“But first?”
“I have to tell Scott something.”
Rebecca shook her head.
“Not yet.”
“Not about Raymond.”
“Then what?”
I looked toward the door.
“That I’m his mother.”
She understood.
Because whatever DNA eventually said, I would not let Scott learn the truth and believe it erased forty-eight years.
We found Scott in the hospital cafeteria with Melissa.
He looked exhausted.
He stood when he saw me.
“Is Richard okay?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Later.”
Scott studied my face.
“Ma, what happened?”
I walked toward him.
Then I hugged him.
He stiffened.
“Ma?”
I held on.
For the first time in days, he didn’t feel like the man who stole from me.
He felt like the baby I had rocked through colic.
The boy who broke his arm falling from a maple tree.
The teenager who pretended he didn’t cry when our dog died.
My son.
He slowly hugged me back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything.”
I stepped away.
His eyes were wet.
“Are you forgiving me?”
“No.”
He almost laughed.
Fair enough.
“I love you,” I said.
His expression changed.
“But loving you does not erase what you did.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
“I am still removing you from my finances.”
“I know.”
“I am still stopping Monday’s sale.”
He looked at Melissa.
Then back at me.
“I know.”
“And you are going to return every dollar you took from me without permission.”
His jaw tightened.
But after several seconds:
“Yes.”
Melissa looked at him.
“Scott—”
He raised his hand.
“No.”
That surprised all of us.
“I took it.”
He looked at me.
“I’ll return it.”
I nodded.
One problem at a time.
Then Scott asked, “Where are you going?”
“To see Thomas.”
His expression darkened.
“Why?”
“Because he’s dying.”
“After everything he did?”
I looked at Rebecca.
“Thomas raised a child everyone else abandoned.”
Scott had no answer.
Rebecca and I left.
At hospice, Thomas looked smaller than the man in the photograph.
He smiled when he saw me.
“Maggie.”
I sat beside him.
“Hello, Thomas.”
Rebecca kissed his forehead.
“Dad.”
His hand found hers.
Then mine.
For a moment, the three of us sat in silence.
A family that should never have existed this way.
But did.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas whispered.
“So am I.”
“For waiting.”
“For believing lies.”
He shook his head.
“You were grieving.”
I looked at him.
“Don’t make me innocent of everything.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I should have asked more questions.”
“Maybe.”
“I should have fought harder.”
“Maybe.”
“But none of us get forty-two years back.”
“No.”
Rebecca squeezed his hand.
Thomas looked at her.
“You got the amendment?”
“Not yet.”
“Go tonight.”
“We will.”
His eyes moved to me.
“Maggie.”
“Yes?”
“There’s something inside it you need to read before anyone else.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“A letter from Evelyn Marsh.”
Scott’s biological mother.
“To who?”
“You.”
I stared at him.
“She wrote to me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Forty-seven years ago.”
“Why?”
Thomas’s eyes filled.
“Because she found out you had her son.”
I stopped breathing.
“You said she thinks he died.”
“She does now.”
“What does that mean?”
Thomas closed his eyes.
“For a few weeks, Evelyn knew Scott was alive.”
My heart hammered.
“What happened?”
“She came to your house.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“You weren’t home.”
“Who was?”
“Daniel.”
My blood went cold.
“What did he do?”
Thomas opened his eyes.
“He paid her to disappear.”
Rebecca whispered, “Oh God.”
“Did she take the money?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t she come back?”
Thomas looked toward the window.
“Because Daniel threatened her.”
“With what?”
“Her daughter.”
I frowned.
“What daughter?”
Thomas looked at Rebecca.
Then at me.
“Evelyn had another child before Scott.”
“Where is she?”
“She was placed through St. Agnes.”
My stomach sank.
“Who adopted her?”
Thomas took a slow breath.
“I don’t know who adopted her.”
A pause.
“But I know what name she uses now.”
Rebecca tightened her grip on his hand.
“What name?”
Thomas looked directly at me.
“Dorothy Wallace.”
Dottie.
My oldest friend.
The woman who had helped alter Rebecca’s records.
The woman who had spent fifty years beside me.
According to Thomas, Dottie was also the biological sister of the son I had raised.
And suddenly I understood why she had stayed so close to my family all these years.
Maybe guilt wasn’t the only reason.
Maybe she had been watching her little brother grow up right in front of her.
One Comment on “PART 18 — THE TRUTH ABOUT SCOTT”