Chapter 4: The Letter My Wife Left Behind
For several seconds, I couldn't move.
Emily's handwriting was unmistakable. The elegant curve of her capital letters, the slight slant of every sentence, the tiny ink blot near the bottom of the page—I'd seen them thousands of times in birthday cards, grocery lists, and notes she'd slipped into my lunch bag when we were newly married.
But this letter was different.
It had been hidden behind a locked cabinet in my own bedroom, among possessions Patricia had told me she'd donated.
And it began with a warning.
Michael, if Patricia is living in our house, you need to know what happened the night Sophia was born.
I read the sentence again.
Then I looked at the photograph in my hand.
Sophia was wrapped in a pale yellow blanket, her tiny face scrunched against Emily's shoulder. The date written on the back was October 14.
Sophia's birth certificate said November 4.
Three weeks.
I had been there when Sophia was born. I'd held her in the hospital, counted her fingers, and cried when Emily placed her in my arms.
I knew my daughter.
Didn't I?
"Daddy?"" Sophia whispered.
I immediately folded the letter.
"Come here, sweetheart.""
She approached cautiously, as though she expected me to change my mind.
I knelt and took her hands.
"Listen to me. Whatever this letter says, it doesn't change the fact that you're my daughter. Nothing can change that.""
Her eyes searched my face.
"Even if Mommy didn't want me?""
The question struck harder than anything Patricia had said.
"Emily loved you," I answered.
"I watched her hold you. I watched her sing to you when you couldn't sleep. She loved you more than anything.""
Sophia's chin trembled.
"Then why did Patricia say she left me?""
I pulled her into my arms.
"Because Patricia told you something that wasn't true.""
I didn't know how much of that statement I could prove yet, but I knew I couldn't let my daughter continue believing that her mother had abandoned her.
Behind us, the bedroom door creaked.
Patricia stood in the hallway.
Her eyes moved from Sophia to the open cabinet, then to the letter in my hand.
For the first time since I'd known her, she looked genuinely afraid.
"Put that away," she said.
I stood.
"What happened on October fourteenth?""
Her lips parted, but no answer came.
"Why is there a photograph of Sophia dated three weeks before her birth certificate says she was born?""
"Michael, you don't understand what you're looking at.""
"Then explain it.""
Patricia glanced toward Sophia.
"Not in front of her.""
"You've been telling her lies about her mother for years. I think she's heard enough to understand the truth.""
Patricia's face hardened.
"Your daughter has a history of misunderstanding things.""
I stepped toward her.
"She was washing clothes on her knees today because you told her she wasn't allowed to use the machine.""
"She needed to learn responsibility.""
"She missed lunch.""
"She refused to eat.""
"She was afraid I'd punish her for telling me what you'd done.""
Patricia raised her voice.
"Because you always take her side!""
Sophia flinched.
I saw it.
Patricia saw it, too.
For a split second, something ugly passed across her face. Then she smoothed her expression and lowered her voice.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"I'm upset. This is all a misunderstanding.""
She reached for my arm.
I stepped away.
"Don't.""
Her hand dropped.
I held up Emily's letter.
"What's in here?""
"Old family business.""
"What family business?""
"Things Emily was confused about before she died.""
I felt my pulse hammering.
"Are you saying Emily wrote this because she was confused?""
Patricia didn't answer.
Instead, she walked toward the cabinet.
I blocked her path.
"You've hidden these things from me. You're going to explain why.""
Her eyes flashed.
"You want an explanation? Fine. Emily was sick. She was frightened of dying, and she became obsessed with the idea that people were trying to take things from her.""
"She never told me that.""
"Because she didn't want you to worry.""
The same excuse she'd used against Sophia.
I looked down at the letter again.
The paper was creased, but the writing remained clear.
I unfolded it.
Patricia came to the hospital before you arrived. She told me she could help us, but I didn't trust her. She said there were things about Sophia's birth that you weren't ready to hear.
I stopped.
Patricia took a sudden step forward.
"Give me that letter.""
"No.""
"Michael, you don't know what you're doing.""
"Then help me understand.""
She stared at me, breathing hard.
I continued reading.
*I wanted to tell you everything that night, but Patricia threatened to make things worse if I did. I thought I had more time. If I'm wrong, and you find this after I'm gone, please speak to Dr.
Harris at St. Mary's Hospital.*
Beneath that sentence was a phone number and a final line.
Ask him who signed Sophia's original discharge papers.
I read the words aloud.
Patricia went completely still.
"Who is Dr. Harris?"" I demanded.
"An old doctor.""
"From St. Mary's?""
"Yes.""
"Why would Emily want me to ask him about Sophia's discharge papers?""
"She was confused.""
"Stop saying that!""
My voice echoed through the room.
Sophia pressed herself against my side.
I immediately lowered my voice.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart.""
Patricia watched us, and something in her expression shifted. She seemed to realize that the old methods weren't working anymore.
"Michael," she said softly, "I understand you're grieving. Emily's death was difficult for both of us.""
"For both of us? You barely knew her.""
"I knew more about her than you think.""
The admission chilled me.
I took out my phone.
"What's Dr. Harris's first name?""
Patricia looked at the screen.
Then she said, "You should ask yourself why Emily kept secrets from you.""
She turned and walked downstairs.
I waited until she was gone before calling the hospital number written on the letter.
A receptionist answered.
I asked for Dr. Harris.
There was a pause while she checked the records.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said.
"Dr. Harris retired several years ago.""
"Can you tell me how to contact him?""
"I can give you the number listed in our records, but I can't guarantee it's current.""
She read it aloud.
I wrote it down and called immediately.
A man answered after the fourth ring.
"Hello?""
"Dr. Harris? My name is Michael Bennett.
My wife, Emily Bennett, delivered our daughter at St. Mary's nine years ago.""
The line went silent.
Then the man said, "I've wondered when you'd call.""
My blood ran cold.
"You remember me?""
"I remember Emily.""
"She left me a letter. She told me to ask who signed our daughter's original discharge papers.""
Another long silence followed.
When Dr. Harris finally spoke, his voice had changed.
"Mr. Bennett, I need to ask you something before we go any further.""
"What?""
"Does your wife Patricia still live with you?""
I stared at the bedroom doorway.
"Yes.""
"Then don't discuss this on the phone. And whatever you do, don't let her know you've contacted me.""
"Why?""
His answer came so quietly that I almost didn't hear it.
"Because Patricia wasn't supposed to have access to Sophia's medical records. And nine years ago, someone made sure she got them anyway.""
The call ended.
I stood motionless, holding the phone.
Then a notification appeared on my screen.
A message from Daniel.
*I've found the original photograph from the storage facility. Call me now.*
I opened the attachment.
It showed Patricia standing beside a man outside a warehouse, holding a brown box.
The man was older, with silver hair and a familiar face.
I recognized him immediately.
May you like
He was the doctor who had delivered my daughter.
And the photograph had been taken two days ago.
