Grant and I spent the next morning trying to find Elizabeth.
We had very little to work with.
A first name.
An old photograph.
A comment on a social media page.
And a letter written by a man who had died twenty years earlier.
It wasn't much.
But it was more than we had ever known.
Grant sat at his computer while I searched through the old photographs again.
I kept returning to the picture of Raymond standing beside Grandma Opal.
There was something about that photograph that bothered me.
Everyone seemed to be looking at the camera except Raymond.
He was looking toward someone outside the frame.
I enlarged the picture.
His expression was different from the one I remembered.
He looked concerned.
"Grant, look at this."
He came over.
"What?"
"Where do you think Dad was looking?"
Grant studied the photograph.
"I don't know."
"Maybe Elizabeth was there."
"Maybe."
We couldn't prove anything.
I returned to the computer.
Grant had found an old community page connected to the children's center where Elizabeth might have volunteered.
There were several archived posts.
Most were ordinary announcements about charity events and neighborhood gatherings.
Then he found a photograph from an event held about twenty years earlier.
A woman stood beside a table covered with children's books.
The caption identified her as Elizabeth.
I leaned closer.
It was the same woman from the social media photograph.
At least, we thought it was.
Her face was older in the second picture, but the eyes looked familiar.
Grant clicked through the comments.
There were messages from former volunteers.
One mentioned that Elizabeth had moved away.
Another said she had stopped attending events after a difficult period in her life.
I read that sentence twice.
A difficult period.
It wasn't an explanation.
But it made me wonder whether something had happened around the time Raymond and Gwendolyn adopted us.
Grant found the name of the organization.
Unfortunately, the website had been inactive for years.
There was an address listed for its former office.
We decided to visit.
Before leaving, I called the number associated with the organization.
A woman answered.
I explained that I was trying to find someone who had volunteered there many years earlier.
"Do you know her full name?" she asked.
"Elizabeth. I'm afraid I don't know her surname."
There was a short pause.
"That's not much to go on."
"I understand. She may have known my adoptive father."
"What's his name?"
"Raymond."
The woman became quiet.
I thought the call had disconnected.
Then she asked:
"Was he the man who used to bring two little boys to the center?"
My heart began beating faster.
"Yes."
"Are you one of those boys?"
I looked at Grant.
"Yes. My name is Wesley."
The woman sighed.
"I remember Raymond."
I gripped the phone.
"Did you know Elizabeth?"
"I did."
"Could you tell me where she is?"
"I haven't spoken to her in years."
"Do you remember anything about her?"
The woman hesitated.
"She was very close to your father."
I looked at Grant again.
He had stopped moving.
"How close?"
"I really think you should speak with her yourself."
"Do you have a way to contact her?"
The woman searched through something.
I heard papers moving.
Then she gave me an old telephone number.
It was possible the number no longer worked.
Still, I wrote it down.
After thanking her, I ended the call.
Grant stared at the number.
"Call it."
I didn't immediately.
I was afraid of what might happen if someone answered.
For twenty years, we had been told that our biological mother had abandoned us.
If Elizabeth knew Raymond, she might know whether that was true.
I finally pressed the call button.
The phone rang.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a woman's voice answered.
"Hello?"
I almost hung up.
"Hello. I'm sorry to bother you."
"Who is this?"
"My name is Wesley."
There was a pause.
"I'm trying to reach someone named Elizabeth."
"Who gave you this number?"
I explained that I had contacted the former children's center.
The woman didn't respond.
I continued.
"My adoptive father was named Raymond. He knew someone named Elizabeth who volunteered there."
Another silence.
Then she said:
"Are you Grant's brother?"
My throat tightened.
"Yes."
I heard a quiet breath.
"Oh."
I didn't know what to say.
She seemed to be searching for words.
"How old are you now?"
"Thirty-three."
"Both of you?"
"Yes."
There was another pause.
Then she said something I hadn't expected.
"I wondered whether this day would ever come."
I looked at Grant.
He mouthed one word.
Ask.
"Can we meet you?"
The woman didn't answer immediately.
Then she gave me an address.
It was in a nearby town.
She asked us to come the following afternoon.
Before ending the call, she said:
"Please bring anything your father left you."
I looked at Raymond's letter.
"I will."
When the call ended, Grant sat down.
Neither of us spoke.
The woman had recognized our names.
She had known our father.
And she had apparently been waiting for us to find her.
For the first time, our search had led somewhere real.
We placed the old photograph and Raymond's letter inside a folder.
Then we agreed to meet Elizabeth the next afternoon.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Woman Waiting for Us Had Known Our Father Long Before We Ever Understood Why He Kept Her Name
I Thought Bringing Her Birthday Flowers Might Finally Make Her See Me as Her Son
Part 5 of 20
