Marianne didn’t argue.
“There were complications at birth,” Marianne said. “Doctors warned there might be long-term health issues. Nothing certain. Just risk. They panicked. They didn’t want a ‘problem.’ So they got rid of the problem in secret.”
“By dumping a baby outside in the middle of winter,” Harold said.
Marianne didn’t argue.
“I’m not here to defend them,” she said. “I’m here because their estate still exists. And because Julian has known about all this for years. And you haven’t.”
“I contacted him first.”
I stared at her.
“He knew?” I whispered.
She nodded.
“I contacted him first,” she said. “We did DNA tests. He read everything. And then he said something that shocked me.”
She paused.
“He said, ‘They don’t get to be my parents just because they left me money.'”
“You have a right to know.”
My eyes burned.
“So he refused?” Harold asked.
“He refused to acknowledge them legally,” she said. “To take their name. To attend any memorials. He wouldn’t call them his parents. He asked me to give him time before involving you.”
She closed the folders and put them back in the box.
“I’ve given him years,” she said. “But this isn’t just his burden. You have a right to know.”
Harold and I just stared at the box.
She pushed the box toward me.
“This belongs to you as much as to him,” she said. “Read it or don’t. But talk to your son.”
Then she left.
The house felt weirdly loud afterward. The clock ticking, the fridge humming, my heartbeat in my ears.
Harold and I just stared at the box.
Finally he said, “Call him.”
