Sibling contact to be reviewed following permanent placement.
Mason stared at the sentence.
"Reviewed by whom?"
Hannah leaned closer.
"I don't know."
He turned the page.
Another notation appeared beneath the first.
Previous contact requests not recommended pending adjustment period.
Mason felt something cold settle in his stomach.
"Adjustment period?"
Hannah nodded.
"Daniel found something similar in his own records."
Mason looked at her.
"How?"
"He requested copies of his adoption documents. The agency sent him a partial file. Some pages were missing."
"Missing?"
"Or withheld. I don't know which."
Mason returned to the first page.
For decades, he had believed that the separation had been cruel but unavoidable. His mother had died. They had entered foster care. The county had made decisions that neither child could control.
He had always blamed himself for being unable to protect Owen.
Now he was beginning to wonder whether the separation had been made worse by decisions that had never been explained to either of them.
He folded the document.
"Did Daniel leave anything else?"
Hannah pointed toward the bottom of the box.
"There are more papers."
They spent the next hour examining the contents.
There were old photographs, school records, insurance documents, a few receipts, and a small notebook containing Daniel's handwriting.
Most of the entries were ordinary.
Measurements for shelves.
A list of materials needed for a kitchen cabinet.
Notes about Caleb's school activities.
A reminder to buy Mia a birthday present.
Then Mason reached a page dated seven years earlier.
It contained only a few lines.
Found the original placement reference. The county file says Owen Reed was moved to a second foster home before adoption. The first family reported that his older brother repeatedly attempted contact.
Mason stopped.
He read the next line.
Why was I told nobody had looked for me?
His fingers tightened around the notebook.
He turned the page.
The file mentions a request from M. Reed when he was eighteen. There is a note saying the request was closed without further action.
Mason stared.
He had filed that request himself.
He remembered the day clearly.
He had been eighteen years old, working two jobs and sleeping in a rented room above an auto repair shop. He had saved money for months to hire someone who could help him locate his brother.
He had gone to the county office with a folder of documents and a photograph.
A clerk had told him that adoption records were sealed.
He had explained that he was Owen's biological brother.
The clerk had repeated that the records were sealed.
He had asked whether the family could be contacted.
The clerk had said there was nothing she could do.
Mason had left that office believing the search was over.
Now he wondered whether anyone had even tried.
Hannah touched his arm.
"Mason?"
He looked at her.
"Your husband spent seven years trying to understand what happened."
"Yes."
"And he never told you everything."
"Not everything."
Mason looked at the notebook again.
"Maybe he didn't want you carrying it."
Hannah smiled sadly.
"Daniel was good at carrying things by himself. Sometimes too good."
Mason understood that.
He had spent much of his own life doing exactly the same thing.
He put the notebook inside the box.
"Can I take copies of these records?"
"Of course."
"I want someone to examine them."
"Who?"
Mason thought for a moment.
"Someone who understands adoption records and county procedures. Someone who isn't connected to the original agency."
Hannah nodded.
"Daniel wanted that too."
Mason looked at her.
"Then we'll do it properly."
For the first time, Hannah smiled without looking exhausted.
"Together?"
Mason hesitated.
He had not expected that word.
Then he nodded.
"Together."
They loaded the metal box into the back of Hannah's vehicle.
Before leaving, Mason stood in the storage unit for a few moments.
He looked at Daniel's workbench.
A collection of screwdrivers hung above it. Several pieces of wood rested against the wall. A small coffee mug sat near the edge, its handle repaired with a metal clamp.
Mason picked it up.
The repair was imperfect.
The handle had been glued at an angle, leaving a visible line around the joint.
He smiled faintly.
Owen had always been impatient with broken things.
When they were children, he had once attempted to repair a toy truck using a hammer, a spoon, and half a roll of adhesive tape.
The truck had survived.
The kitchen table had not.
Mason set the mug down.
"Your brother was a terrible repairman," he said.
Hannah laughed.
"He was actually very good at fixing things."
"Not when he was eight."