“What’s the difference?”
“He was supposed to watch her.”
Marco and I exchanged a glance.
“Why?”
Ruth opened a storage room.
“Because Samuel asked him to.”
“My father was dead.”
“Yes.”
She did not appear confused.
That frightened me more.
“Mrs. Vale.”
“Ruth.”
“Ruth, my father died six years ago.”
“I attended his funeral.”
“Then how did he ask your son to watch Elena five years ago?”
She looked at me.
“Samuel left instructions.”
The blue folder.
“The instructions were opened after his death?”
“Some.”
“Some?”
Ruth pulled a box from a shelf.
“Your father planned for many possibilities.”
Inside were envelopes.
Dozens.
Each marked with a date.
Some had been opened.
Others had not.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Samuel’s contingency file.”
Marco stepped closer.
“Who maintained it?”
“My husband. Nathaniel.”
Dr. Vale.
“Why?” I asked.
Ruth looked toward the stairs.
Then lowered her voice.
“Because your father was afraid his children would find out how they were born.”
I stared at her.
“Excuse me?”
She removed one envelope.
My name was written across it.
LUKE.
A second envelope.
DANIEL.
A third.
VIVIENNE.
Then a fourth.
ELENA.
My hands went cold.
“Why does Elena have an envelope?”
Ruth’s face filled with sadness.
“Because Samuel knew who she was before you did.”
I took the envelope.
It was sealed.
The adhesive was old.
Untouched.
“Open it,” Marco said.
I hesitated.
Then tore the paper.
Inside was a single photograph.
Two women stood beside a hospital crib.
One was my mother.
Young.
Beautiful.
Exhausted.
The other woman had dark hair and familiar eyes.
Elena’s eyes.
I turned the photograph over.
A date was written on the back.
Thirty-four years ago.
Beneath it, my father’s handwriting.
VIVIENNE AND SOFIA.
I looked at Ruth.
“Sofia who?”
She answered quietly.
“Sofia Ross.”
Elena’s mother.
The room tilted.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“Elena’s mother knew mine?”
“Yes.”
“Why has no one ever said this?”
“Because they promised Samuel they wouldn’t.”
“Why?”
Ruth looked at Marco.
Then at me.
“Because both women were part of the same fertility study.”
I stared at the photograph.
My mother’s hand rested on the hospital crib.
Sofia Ross stood beside her.
The two women were smiling.
“What study?”
Ruth shook her head.
“That is what Samuel spent the rest of his life trying to hide.”
I thought of the genetic compatibility record.
THE CHILD MATTERS.
My mouth went dry.
“Are Elena and I related?”
The question barely came out.
Ruth’s eyes widened.
“No.”
The relief was so immediate my knees nearly weakened.
“No,” she repeated. “Nothing like that.”
“Then what?”
She looked at the envelope in my hand.
“Samuel learned the study had been dishonest.”
“How?”
“Records were changed.”
“What records?”
“Embryo records.”
I stopped breathing.
Marco moved closer.
Ruth continued.
“Your father believed the clinic had switched samples. Altered donor identities. Hidden hereditary information.”
My mind struggled to follow.
“Why?”
“Money. Research. Reputation. I don’t know all of it.”
“And my father?”
“He found out too late.”
“How late?”
Ruth looked at me.
“After you were born.”
The room became silent.
I thought of Samuel.
