“I know.”
And I did.
That had never been the question.
Thirty-two years of love couldn’t be erased by one revelation.
I was shocked.
I was hurt that she had kept something so important from me.
But I never questioned whether she was my mother.
Dr. Reeves gave us some time alone.
For nearly twenty minutes, we barely said a word.
We simply held hands.
Eventually, Mom said:
“You know, I rehearsed the conversation for years.”
I looked at her.
“When you were little, I planned exactly what I would say. I decided I’d tell you when you turned ten.”
She gave a sad laugh.
“Then your tenth birthday came, and you were so happy blowing out your candles. I thought, not today.”
She shook her head.
“Then came eleven. Twelve. Thirteen.”
Her eyes lowered.
“That’s how thirty years passes, Emma. One ‘not today’ at a time.”
“I wish you had told me.”
“I know.”
“But I understand how you got there.”
Her eyes filled again.
“I’m shaken,” I said. “But I’m not angry.”
She held my hand so tightly it almost hurt.
When Dr. Reeves came back, he brought a woman with him.
She introduced herself as Agent Morris.
She was part of the investigation into Maplewood House.
She explained that dozens of former children had been identified as potentially having altered records.
Some had spent their entire lives with inaccurate family histories.
Some had birthdays or names that might not even be correct.
Others had spent decades wondering why certain parts of their personal histories never quite made sense.
Then Agent Morris looked directly at me.
