PART 13 — THE LAND WAS MINE
For a moment, I thought Thomas was confused.
Maybe hospice medication.
Maybe age.
Maybe forty-two years had blurred his memory the way everyone had spent four years pretending mine was blurred.
“The land was mine?”
“Yes, Maggie.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It will.”
Scott moved toward the phone.
“Thomas, you need to stop.”
The old man laughed weakly.
“Still giving orders, Scott?”
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
I looked at Richard.
“Do you know what he’s talking about?”
Richard shook his head.
“No.”
Raymond looked equally stunned.
Rebecca, however, wasn’t looking at Thomas’s voice coming from the phone.
She was looking at me.
“You really don’t know.”
“No.”
Something in her expression softened.
Perhaps only a fraction.
But I saw it.
Thomas continued.
“Do you remember your grandfather’s farm?”
I did.
My mother’s father.
Samuel Porter.
A hard, quiet man who smelled like pipe tobacco and apples.
I had spent summers running through his fields.
“He sold it when I was a teenager.”
“No.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“Your mother told you he sold it.”
My heart sank.
Of course she did.
“What actually happened?”
“He divided it.”
I sat slowly.
“Between who?”
“Your mother and you.”
I shook my head.
“I was sixteen.”
“He put your portion into a trust.”
Thomas coughed.
Rebecca stepped toward Scott’s phone.
“Dad, don’t push yourself.”
Dad.
She called Thomas Dad.
Not Raymond.
I noticed Raymond heard it too.
His face showed pain.
But he said nothing.
Thomas continued.
“Your grandfather didn’t trust your mother with all of it.”
That sounded like him.
“He left roughly sixty acres for you.”
“The Fairview land?”
“Yes.”
I stared at the ledger.
“But you and Daniel bought it.”
“No.”
“That’s what Scott said.”
Thomas laughed.
“Scott only knows the version Daniel told him.”
Scott’s face hardened.
“What version?”
“That we purchased the property together.”
“Then why was your name on the deed?” Rebecca asked.
“Because Margaret’s mother arranged it.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why?”
“To keep the land out of Maggie’s hands until she was older.”
“How much older?”
“Originally twenty-five.”
I had been twenty-two when I married Daniel.
Twenty-three when Rebecca was born.
“What happened when I turned twenty-five?”
Thomas went quiet.
“Daniel had already changed the paperwork.”
My throat tightened.
“How?”
“He convinced your mother to terminate the trust.”
“Could she do that?”
“Not legally.”
Richard leaned forward.
“What kind of trust?”
“That’s in Unit 317.”
Everything kept returning to that storage unit.
Thomas continued.
“Daniel and I were starting the construction company. He needed collateral.”
I understood.
“He used my land.”
“Yes.”
“Did I sign anything?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“Your mother signed as trustee.”
Richard frowned.
“If Margaret was already entitled to distribution, that could have been improper.”
“It was.”
I looked at Thomas’s ledger.
“And your name?”
“Daniel added me as a partner so the bank would finance the company.”
“So you didn’t own half?”
“No.”
“Then why did you let everyone believe you did?”
Thomas was quiet.
“For you.”
I almost laughed.
“For me?”
“Daniel told me if I challenged him, he’d tell everyone Rebecca was mine.”
Raymond lowered his head.
The room became very still.
Thomas continued.
“Back then, that would’ve destroyed several lives.”
“So you stayed quiet.”
“For a while.”
“How long?”
“Until I realized Daniel intended to sell the property.”
My heart pounded.
“And then?”
“I confronted him.”
The blood on Daniel’s shirt.
The night Thomas disappeared.
My stomach turned.
“You fought.”
“Yes.”
“Was that your blood?”
A pause.
“Some of it.”
Rebecca whispered, “Dad…”
“I’m all right.”
He wasn’t.
We all knew it.
“What happened that night?” I asked.
“Daniel came to my apartment.”
“Why?”
“He wanted the original trust papers.”
“Did you have them?”
“Yes.”
“Did you give them to him?”
“No.”
Thomas coughed hard.
When he spoke again, his voice was weaker.
“He beat me badly enough that I spent three days in a hospital under another name.”
I closed my eyes.
Daniel.
My Daniel.
The man who couldn’t watch me kill spiders.
The man who cried when our dog died.
People are terrifying when you discover how many versions of them can exist at once.
“Then you left.”
“Yes.”
“With Rebecca.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because your mother called me.”
That surprised me.
“My mother?”
“She told me Daniel had discovered Rebecca was alive.”
I stared at Raymond.
He looked confused too.
“What do you mean discovered?”
Thomas answered.
“Daniel thought she had been placed for adoption somewhere far away.”
I felt sick.
“He didn’t know you took her?”
“Not at first.”
“So my mother lied to him too.”
“Yes.”
At least she had been consistent.
Everyone got a lie.
“What did she ask you to do?”
“Take Rebecca and disappear.”
“And you agreed.”
“I loved her.”
Rebecca’s eyes filled.
Thomas continued.
“I already had.”
I looked at her.
My daughter had lost almost everything she should have had.
But she had been loved.
That mattered.
It did not erase anything.
But it mattered.
“Why didn’t you take me too?”
Thomas went silent.
Then:
“I tried.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“I left a message with Dottie.”
I looked at my phone.
Dottie was no longer connected.
I hadn’t even noticed when the call ended.
“What message?”
“To meet me at the bus station.”
My hands began shaking.
“I never got it.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I waited six hours.”
The room blurred.
Six hours.
Somewhere forty-two years ago, Thomas had waited with my living baby for me to arrive.
And I had been home mourning her death.
“I thought you chose Daniel.”
His voice cracked.
“And you thought Rebecca was dead.”
Neither of us spoke.
Forty-two years created by two people waiting for each other under different lies.
Then Thomas said, “That’s why I kept everything.”
“The documents?”
“Yes.”
“For forty-two years?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you come back?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Several times.”
I looked at Scott.
He seemed surprised.
Thomas continued.
“The first time Rebecca turned eighteen.”
“The letters.”
“Yes.”
“Daniel intercepted them.”
“Yes.”
“The second?”
“After your mother died.”
Nineteen years ago.
“What happened?”
“Daniel threatened Rebecca.”
Raymond stood.
“What?”
Rebecca looked away.
Thomas’s voice sharpened despite his weakness.
“He told her if she contacted Margaret, he’d expose Raymond as her biological father and destroy Raymond’s family.”
Raymond gripped his cane.
“My wife was alive then.”
Rebecca looked at him.
“Yes.”
Raymond sat slowly.
He suddenly looked much older.
“And the third time?” I asked.
“After Daniel became ill.”
My chest tightened.
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three weeks before he died.”
Scott stared at the phone.
“You met Dad?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Thomas was quiet for several seconds.
“He apologized.”
Nobody expected that.
I certainly didn’t.
“For what?”
“Everything.”
My eyes filled.
“Did you forgive him?”
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“But I listened.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That he’d changed his will.”
Richard leaned forward.
Thomas continued.
“He said he was leaving control of Bennett Property Holdings to Maggie.”
I looked at Richard.
That matched the original will.
“He also told me Scott had begun asking questions about the property.”
Scott said nothing.
“Daniel was afraid Scott would discover how much it was worth before Margaret discovered she owned it.”
I stared at my son.
“So he warned you about Scott?”
“Yes.”
“But then why give Scott any part of the company?”
Thomas sighed.
“Because Daniel still loved his son.”
I understood that more than I wanted to.
Love does not make people wise.
Sometimes it simply makes their mistakes harder to stop.
Richard tapped the will.
“Thomas, did Daniel tell you why this original was never submitted?”
“No.”
Everyone looked at Scott.
He stared at the table.
I asked, “What happened after your father died?”
Scott didn’t answer.
“Scott.”
His voice was low.
“I found the older will.”
“Where?”
“In Dad’s desk.”
“And the new one?”
“I didn’t know about it.”
Richard said, “That’s true.”
I looked at him.
“How do you know?”
“Daniel gave the original directly to me.”
“Then why didn’t you file it?”
Richard’s face tightened.
“Because two days after Daniel died, I received a letter.”
“From who?”
“Supposedly you.”
My stomach dropped.
“What did it say?”
“That you knew about the newer will and wanted it destroyed.”
“I never wrote that.”
“I know that now.”
Scott looked genuinely confused.
“So who sent it?”
Richard opened his briefcase.
He removed a copy.
“I kept it.”
He handed it to me.
My name was typed at the bottom.
Not signed.
I read the letter.
It said I wanted Daniel’s final changes disregarded because he had been confused and emotionally unstable.
The wording sounded familiar.
Very familiar.
Then I remembered.
Scott had used almost the same words about me.
Confused.
Emotional.
Unable to manage things.
I looked at him.
“Did you write this?”
“No.”
“Melissa?”
“No.”
Richard interrupted.
“I know where it was mailed from.”
“Where?”
“Fairview.”
That told us little.
Then Rebecca asked, “When was it postmarked?”
Richard gave the date.
The day after my husband’s funeral.
Raymond suddenly looked up.
“What?”
We all turned toward him.
He stared at the letter.
“Say the date again.”
Richard did.
Raymond went pale.
“I know who was in Fairview that day.”
“Who?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“Dottie.”
My heart sank.
Again.
Dottie.
Always one step behind every secret.
I reached for my phone.
Then stopped.
No.
I was tired of asking people for truth and receiving whatever portion they thought I could survive.
Tomorrow Laura was bringing the key.
Unit 317 held the original trust documents.
Maybe letters.
Maybe proof.
And for once, I wanted paper before promises.
“I’m going to that storage unit tomorrow.”
Scott immediately said, “No.”
I looked at him.
“You don’t get a vote.”
“Ma, if those documents are what Thomas says they are, people could go to prison.”
The room went silent.
I studied my son.
He hadn’t said I could go to prison.
He had said people.
“Who are you protecting?”
Scott looked away.
“Melissa?”
Nothing.
“Richard?”
Richard’s eyebrows rose.
“No.”
“Dottie?”
Scott’s jaw tightened.
There.
I saw it.
“You know what Dottie did.”
He whispered, “Not all of it.”
I leaned closer.
“What did she do?”
Scott looked at me for several seconds.
Then finally said:
“She wasn’t just your mother’s friend at St. Agnes.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“She worked there.”
My blood went cold.
“No. Dottie worked at the telephone company.”
“Later.”
Rebecca slowly opened Thomas’s ledger again.
She searched several pages.
Then stopped.
Her face changed.
“What?” I asked.
She turned the book toward me.
Near the back was a list of names.
Women.
Dates.
Infants.
Beside several entries were initials.
D.W.
Dorothy Wallace.
I stared at the page.
Rebecca whispered,
“Margaret… I don’t think I was the only baby.”
I looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
She pointed to the ledger.
There were twenty-three names.
Twenty-three mothers.
Twenty-three babies.
And beside every one was the same notation:
Records amended — D.W.
My stomach turned.
Thomas hadn’t spent forty-two years preserving evidence about one stolen child.
He had preserved evidence about twenty-three.
And suddenly tomorrow’s trip to Unit 317 wasn’t only about finding out what my family had done to me.
It was about finding out what they had done to twenty-two other mothers.
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