Wait for me beneath the oak tree.
I love you.
Jack.
He read the letter again.
Then again.
How did you get these?
Eleanor's voice softened.
Your letters were intercepted. I found them in a box after David Hale died. I kept them because I thought one day someone might need to know the truth.
Jack pressed the paper against his chest.
For thirty-four years, he had believed Rebecca had stopped loving him.
Now he knew she had waited.
He had been wrong about the most important thing in his life.
Maggie placed a hand on his shoulder.
Jack bowed his head.
And for the first time since he was twenty-one, he allowed himself to grieve not only the woman he had lost, but the years he had spent believing she had chosen to lose him.
When Jack returned to Willow Street, Sarah was waiting on the porch.
She had the silver charm in one hand and Frank Delaney's business card in the other.
Did you know my mother was pregnant?
Jack stopped.
Yes.
Did you know she had a baby?
Yes.
Did you know that baby might have been me?
He couldn't answer quickly enough.
Sarah's face crumpled.
You knew.
I suspected.
And you didn't tell me.
I didn't have proof.
She laughed bitterly.
Neither do I. But at least I didn't spend thirty-four years looking for someone who might not exist.
Jack flinched.
Sarah immediately regretted the words, but she couldn't take them back.
She had spent the day thinking about her mother, the necklace, and the man who claimed to have loved her.
Now the truth seemed to be unfolding around her like a storm she could neither predict nor escape.
What happened to my father? she asked.
Jack shook his head.
I don't know.
My mother told me David Carter was my father.
I never knew him.
Then who was he?
I don't know.
Sarah pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead.
Every answer creates another question.
I know.
No, Jack. You don't. You got to mourn a woman you believed was dead. I had her. I grew up with her. I listened to her stories. I watched her grow old. And now I don't know which parts of my life were true.
Jack stepped closer.
Sarah, I can't undo what happened.
Then don't pretend you can fix it.
He stopped.
For a moment, the only sound was the rustling of leaves above them.
Finally, Jack said, "I won't."
Sarah looked at him.
But I won't stop looking for the truth.
She glanced down at the charm.
Neither will I, she thought.
Because if her mother had been forced to hide the truth, Sarah deserved to know why.
And if Frank Delaney had been part of it, he was going to discover that the little girl who had once sold a bicycle for five dollars had grown into a woman who would no longer allow other people to decide what she was allowed to know.
The first thing Sarah did was call her mother's old doctor.
The second was search every box of family photographs, letters, and documents she had kept since Rebecca's death.
The third was something she had never expected to do.
She called Jack Sullivan.
He answered on the second ring.
Sarah?
I need your help.
There was a pause.
All right.
I don't want money.
I understand.
I don't want you to arrange a job or send people to my house.
Understood.
I want answers.
Jack's voice softened.
Then we'll look for them together.
Sarah closed her eyes.
For the first time since he had appeared beneath the oak tree, she believed him.
The doctor's office had closed years earlier, but a receptionist gave Sarah the name of the physician who had purchased the practice's records.
Dr. Thomas Ellison agreed to meet them the following afternoon.
He was a thin man in his seventies, with careful manners and a memory that seemed sharper than he expected.
When Sarah explained the situation, he removed his glasses.
Your mother was a patient of mine for many years.
Did she ever tell you about a pregnancy in 1992?
The doctor hesitated.
She mentioned a difficult period in her youth.
Did she have a child?
He looked at Jack.
Then back at Sarah.
Not according to the records I received.
Could the records be incomplete?
Certainly.
Sarah leaned forward.
Doctor, I need you to be honest with me. My mother died believing she had to protect something. I don't know what it was. But I think the answer may be in her medical history.
Dr. Ellison studied her for a long moment.
Then he stood and disappeared into the back room.
When he returned, he carried a thin folder.
I found this among some archived documents. It was not part of the ordinary patient file.
Sarah opened it.
Inside was a photocopy of a hospital discharge form dated October 16, 1992.
The patient's name was Rebecca Hale.
The notes were brief.
Female infant delivered at 4:12 a.m. Mother stable. Infant transferred under private guardianship arrangement.
Sarah read the words twice.
Then she looked up.
Private guardianship?
Dr. Ellison nodded.
That phrase was used in certain private arrangements at the time. It doesn't tell us whether the child was adopted, placed with relatives, or transferred for another reason.
Who authorized it?
The doctor pointed to a signature at the bottom.
David Hale.
Sarah's hands began to shake.
Her grandfather had signed the document.
A man she had never met had apparently made a decision about her life before she was old enough to breathe on her own.
She looked at Jack.
He was staring at the paper with an expression of quiet devastation.
I think this is me, she whispered.
Jack nodded.
I think so too.
Sarah pressed the folder against her chest.
For thirty-four years, she had believed her life began with two loving parents and a mother who sometimes seemed haunted by memories she couldn't explain.