The following afternoon, Grant drove.
I held the folder on my lap.
Inside were Raymond's letter, the old photograph, and the small piece of paper where I had written Elizabeth's telephone number.
Neither of us talked much.
The address was in a quiet residential neighborhood.
The houses were older than the ones near our apartment buildings.
There were small gardens and narrow driveways.
Grant parked outside a pale blue house.
I checked the address again.
"This is it."
He switched off the engine.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No."
He gave a small nod.
"Me neither."
We walked toward the front door.
I rang the bell.
A few seconds later, it opened.
The woman standing there looked to be in her late fifties or early sixties.
She had gray beginning to show in her hair.
Her eyes moved from me to Grant.
Then she covered her mouth.
"Oh, my goodness."
I recognized her from the photographs.
Elizabeth.
She stepped aside.
"Please come in."
Her voice was gentle.
But her hands were trembling.
We entered a small living room.
There were books on the shelves and photographs on the walls.
One picture showed a group of volunteers standing outside the children's center.
Another showed Raymond.
I stopped walking.
He was standing beside Elizabeth.
They looked comfortable together.
Not like strangers.
Not like people who had simply met at a community event.
Elizabeth noticed me looking.
"That was taken a long time ago."
I turned toward her.
"You knew my father?"
She nodded.
"Very well."
Grant placed the folder on the coffee table.
"We found your name while searching through old records."
Elizabeth sat down.
"I wondered how long it would take."
I looked at her.
"Why?"
She folded her hands.
"Because Raymond always hoped you boys would learn the truth one day."
My chest tightened.
"What truth?"
Elizabeth looked at the folder.
"May I see what you brought?"
I handed her the letter.
She recognized the handwriting immediately.
Her eyes filled with tears.
"Raymond wrote this."
"Yes."
She read it slowly.
When she reached the final sentence, she closed her eyes.
"He never stopped thinking about you."
Grant leaned forward.
"Why did he mention you?"
Elizabeth placed the letter carefully on the table.
"Because I knew your family before you were adopted."
I waited.
She looked directly at me.
"I knew your biological mother too."
The room seemed to become smaller.
I felt Grant's hand touch my shoulder.
"Who was she?" he asked.
Elizabeth took a breath.
"Her name was Sarah."
I had never heard that name before.
Not once.
Gwendolyn had never mentioned it.
Neither had Grandma Opal.
I repeated it quietly.
"Sarah."
Elizabeth nodded.
"She was a kind woman. She loved children."
I stared at her.
"But we were told she abandoned us."
Elizabeth looked down.
"I know."
Grant's voice became harder.
"Is that true?"
She shook her head.
"No. Not the way you were told."
I felt my fingers go cold.
"What happened?"
Elizabeth seemed reluctant to continue.
She stood up and walked toward a cabinet.
Inside were several old photographs and a small wooden box.
She returned with the box and placed it on the table.
"I kept some things from those years."
She opened it.
There were photographs, folded letters, and a small card.
One photograph showed a young woman holding two little boys.
I recognized the boys immediately.
Grant and me.
We were very small.
The woman holding us was smiling.
I had never seen her before.
But I knew who she was.
"That's Sarah," Elizabeth said.
I couldn't take my eyes off the photograph.
"That's our mother?"
"Yes."
Grant picked it up.
His fingers moved carefully over the edges.
"Why didn't we have this?"
Elizabeth looked at us.
"Because the people who controlled what you were told didn't want you to see it."
I swallowed.
"Was Gwendolyn involved?"
Elizabeth nodded.
"Yes."
I looked at Grant.
He was staring at the photograph.
"Tell us everything," he said.
Elizabeth sat down again.
She explained that she had known Sarah through the children's center.
Sarah had been struggling financially.
She had been trying to provide for two young children while dealing with difficult circumstances.
Raymond had known her too.
He had become involved because he and Gwendolyn were considering adopting children.
But the arrangement had not happened the way we had been told.
Elizabeth stopped.
She seemed to be choosing her words carefully.
"Sarah did not simply disappear."
I leaned forward.
"Then where did she go?"
Elizabeth looked at the photograph.
"She was separated from you."
"By whom?"
Elizabeth's eyes moved toward mine.
"That is something I believe you need to understand before you decide what to do next."
I felt frustration rising.
"We have waited thirty years to hear this."
"I know."
"Please don't make us wait again."
She nodded.
Then she told us that Sarah had wanted to remain part of our lives.
She had hoped that the adoption would give us a safe home without completely erasing her from our lives.
But something had changed.
There had been disagreements.
Promises.
Decisions made by adults who believed they knew what was best.
And eventually, Sarah lost contact with us.
I looked down at the photograph.
The woman in it was holding both of us.
She didn't look like someone who wanted to disappear.
I felt angry.
Then I felt ashamed for having believed otherwise.
Elizabeth reached across the table.
"Your father tried to help."
"Raymond?"
"Yes. He wanted you boys to grow up knowing that your mother loved you."
I looked at her.
"Then why didn't he tell us?"
Elizabeth's expression changed.
"Because he was afraid of what would happen if he did."
That answer brought back the arguments Grant remembered hearing.
The promise.
The questions.
The photograph Gwendolyn had removed.
Everything seemed connected.
I asked Elizabeth whether she knew where Sarah was now.
She looked at us for a long moment.
Then she said she had kept an address.
It was old.
She couldn't promise it was still correct.
But she believed it was the last place Sarah had lived.
Grant took out his phone.
"Can you give it to us?"
Elizabeth nodded.
She opened the wooden box again.
Inside was a folded envelope with Sarah's name written across it.
She held it for a moment before handing it to Grant.
I looked at the photograph again.
For the first time, I had a face to connect with the word mother.
And it wasn't the face Gwendolyn had spent twenty years making us imagine.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: The Photograph of Our Biological Mother Forced Us to Ask Whether the Woman Who Raised Us Had Taken Something We Could Never Get Back
I Thought Bringing Her Birthday Flowers Might Finally Make Her See Me as Her Son
Part 6 of 20
