“…ours,” my mother finished. “It was hers. And it was yours. But we could only give it to you if we told you the truth.” She was holding the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “Marguerite was your mother. Your birth mother. She was sixteen when she had you.”
Nobody moved. My father was still standing over his overturned chair. Evan wouldn’t look at me. Brie had stopped smiling. My mother kept going, the words falling out of her like she’d been holding them for thirty years. “Her parents had money. They opened that account the week you were born. There was one condition in the papers. You could have every penny, any time, the moment we told you she existed.”
I stared at her. “So when I was seventeen, and you cried and told me there was nothing left…” My mother nodded, tears running down her face. “There was two hundred thousand dollars with your name on it. And all I had to do was tell you I wasn’t your real mother. I couldn’t. I was so afraid you’d leave.”
My father finally spoke. “Evan’s car and the down payment came out of my retirement,” he said quietly. “I cashed it out. I told myself it was fair because your money was waiting for you. I told myself we’d tell you soon. Then soon was twelve years.”
I looked at the last withdrawal. The day I turned eighteen. “Then what’s this?” My mother wiped her eyes. “Marguerite got sick that year. She called us. She asked for one thing: a photo of you on your eighteenth birthday, and enough to pay for her hospice so she wouldn’t die alone. The papers allowed it. I sent the photo. She passed three weeks later. She had it in her hand.”
I didn’t say anything for a long time. Brie whispered that she was sorry, that she found the folder while cleaning their garage and thought it was something else. I believe her. I left without finishing dinner.
The next morning, I drove three hours to a small cemetery in Maine. The stone says Marguerite Ellis, 1979–2014. Loved from a distance. I sat on the grass for two hours. Then I called my mother, the one who raised me, and told her I was angry, and that I loved her, and that both of those things were going to be true for a while. The money paid off what was left of my loans. The rest is still in the account with my name on it. I haven’t decided what Marguerite would want. But I go see her every spring, and I bring my mom.
