The first thing I did after leaving the hospital was drive home alone.
Natalie had offered to come, but I had told her I needed a little time. That wasn't entirely true. I needed to think without her standing beside me, watching my face for answers I wasn't ready to give.
The house felt different when I walked through the front door. Nothing had changed physically. Her purse was still on the chair. Two coffee mugs sat beside the sink. A sweater she had left over the back of the couch still carried the faint scent of her perfume. Yet everything seemed strangely unfamiliar.
I went into my office and placed Priya's folder on the desk.
I didn't open it immediately.
Instead, I sat there and looked at my father's handwriting on the envelope I had brought home from the hospital.
I had spent most of my life believing that secrets were things people kept because they didn't trust you.
Now I understood that sometimes people kept them because they were afraid the truth would hurt you.
The distinction mattered.
My father had hidden my biological mother from me for more than forty years, but he had never hidden his love.
Natalie had hidden nothing that I knew of.
And somehow, I trusted her less.
That thought made me uncomfortable.
I didn't want to become the kind of man who interpreted every ordinary action as evidence of betrayal.
So I opened the folder.
The first document was a copy of Eleanor's will.
The second was a property deed.
The third showed the balance of a savings account that had been established years earlier.
There were also several letters from Eleanor's attorney explaining that she had maintained records concerning me for decades.
Then I found a handwritten note.
It wasn't from Eleanor.
It was from Dad.
Grant, there is something I didn't put in the first letter because I wanted you to hear it from me if I was still able to tell you.
I stopped.
My heart began beating faster.
The next sentence was underlined.
Your mother did not give you up because she didn't want you.
I read it twice.
Then I continued.
She believed that allowing me and your mother to raise you would give you a safer life. She was seventeen. We were older. We thought we knew what was best. We were wrong about many things, but never about loving you.
I leaned back.
For years, I had unknowingly carried the possibility that my biological mother had abandoned me.
Now I knew she hadn't.
She had been a frightened teenager surrounded by adults who had made a decision for her.
I continued reading.
There was one final paragraph.
I also need you to know that Eleanor contacted me several times over the years. I refused to let her interfere with your childhood. I believed I was protecting you. I don't know if I was right.
That sentence hurt.
My father had been protecting me and, at the same time, preventing me from knowing the woman who had given birth to me.
I closed my eyes.
Then my phone rang.
Natalie.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Can I come over?”
I looked at the folder.
“Give me an hour.”
Her voice became quiet.
“Grant, I need to know what your father left you.”
I felt my jaw tighten.
“It's not about money.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I read his letter.”
“And?”
“I'll tell you when I'm ready.”
She sighed.
“You're making this sound much more serious than it needs to be.”
I said nothing.
Then she asked, “Did he leave you the house?”
“What house?”
There was a pause.
I stared at the phone.
“What did you just ask?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You asked if he left me a house.”
“I heard you had documents.”
“Who told you?”
“No one.”
“You just asked about a house.”
She became defensive.
“I was guessing.”
I slowly stood.
“Why would you guess that?”
“I don't know, Grant.”
“You do.”
She didn't answer.
The silence between us lasted several seconds.
Finally, she said, “Your father always treated you like you were entitled to something.”
I felt a coldness settle in my chest.
“That's what you think?”
“I think he has always made you feel responsible for him.”
“That isn't what you said.”
“What are you accusing me of?”
“Nothing.”
“You're clearly accusing me of something.”
“I haven't accused you of anything.”
“Then why are you questioning me?”
“Because you asked about a house you supposedly didn't know existed.”
She ended the call.
I stood in my office holding the phone.
For the first time, I understood what Dad had meant by observing.
He hadn't claimed Natalie was dishonest.
He had simply noticed things.
Maybe I should have noticed them too.
That afternoon, I went back to the hospital.
Dad was awake.
His breathing was still shallow, but he looked stronger.
When I entered the room, he smiled.
“You came back.”
“Of course.”
He looked at my hands.
“You read everything?”
“Most of it.”
He nodded.
“I need to ask you something.”
His expression changed.
“About Natalie?”
“Yes.”
Dad closed his eyes.
“I didn't want to put that in your head.”
“You didn't.”
“You sure?”
“I need you to tell me what you know.”
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said, “I don't know what she has done.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
He looked at me.
“I know she asked you about my finances.”
I stared at him.
“When?”
“More than once.”
“What did she ask?”
“Whether the land from your grandfather was still in my name. Whether I had savings. Whether I'd changed my will.”
My stomach tightened.
“When did she ask you that?”
“Over the last two years.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I didn't want to destroy your marriage over questions.”
I looked away.
That was exactly what he had said through his actions.
He hadn't wanted to accuse her.
He had wanted me to see for myself.
“Did she ever ask about Eleanor?”
Dad's eyes shifted.
“Yes.”
“What did she know?”
“She knew there was someone in my past.”
“Did you tell her?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“I don't know.”
I sat beside him.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Finally, Dad said, “There's another reason I asked for the thousand dollars.”
“What?”
“I needed to pay someone to retrieve an old box.”
“What was in it?”
“Letters.”
“From Eleanor?”
He nodded.
“Some were addressed to you.”
“Where are they?”
“Priya has them.”
I remembered the sealed letters.
“How many?”
“Thirty-seven.”
Thirty-seven years of letters.
Thirty-seven years of someone writing to a son she wasn't allowed to know.
I looked at my father.
“Why did you keep them?”
His eyes filled.
“Because I couldn't throw them away.”
That answer broke through me.
He hadn't destroyed her words.
He had kept them.
Even while believing he was protecting me.
“Did you read them?”
“Some.”
“Why?”
“To know whether she was dangerous.”
I frowned.
“She wasn't.”
“No.”
He looked toward the window.
“She was just a mother who missed her son.”
I reached for his hand.
“You should have told me.”
“I know.”
“I'm not angry.”
“I know.”
“But I wish you had.”
“I know that too.”
A nurse came in to check his medication.
When she left, Dad closed his eyes.
“I need you to promise me something.”
“What?”
“Don't make decisions about Natalie because of me.”
I looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
“If she has done something wrong, deal with it because you know it. Not because I suspected it.”
That sentence stayed with me.
My father wasn't asking me to leave my wife.
He wasn't asking me to distrust her.
He was asking me to be fair.
So I promised.
That evening, I went home.
Natalie was sitting at the dining table.
There were two plates in front of her.
She had cooked dinner.
“I thought you might be hungry.”
I sat down.
She didn't speak for a while.
Then she said, “I'm sorry about what I said to your father.”
I looked at her.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he was sick.”
I waited.
She looked down.
“I didn't know.”
“That doesn't excuse it.”
“I know.”
For a moment, I wanted to believe her.
Then she asked, “So what did he leave you?”
I put my fork down.
There it was again.
Not how he was doing.
Not whether he had survived.
Not whether I had slept.
The inheritance.
“The estate isn't the important part.”
“What is?”
“My mother.”
Natalie looked confused.
“Your mother?”
“Biological mother.”
Her expression changed.
I watched carefully.
She had been expecting money.
She hadn't expected that.
“Your father told you?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I have a biological mother named Eleanor.”
Natalie stared at me.
Then she said something that made the room go completely still.
“I knew there was someone.”
I didn't move.
“What?”
She looked away.
“I heard your father mention her once.”
“When?”
“I don't remember.”
“You just said you knew.”
“I knew there was a woman.”
“What did he call her?”
“I don't know.”
“Her name?”
She hesitated.
“Eleanor.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
I hadn't told her the name.
My father hadn't either.
Not according to him.
“Where did you hear that name?”
She looked at me.
And for the first time since this began, Natalie looked frightened.
“I don't know.”
But I knew one thing.
She was lying.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: When My Wife Claimed She Barely Remembered Eleanor, I Found an Old Message That Made Her Denial Impossible to Believe
My Father Asked for Money He Had Never Needed Before, and My Wife’s Cruel Answer Made Me Realize Something Was Terribly Wrong
Part 5 of 12
