Disclaimer: This story is entirely fictional and created for entertainment purposes only. It does not represent any organization or individual, nor does it encourage inappropriate behavior. The content was generated with AI assistance.
PART 2:
Daniel stared at the screen. The words didn’t make sense. They couldn’t make sense.
“My mother died when I was fourteen years old.”
Rachel didn’t flinch.
“I know.”
“I stood beside her casket.”
“Then someone buried an empty box.”
The room tilted. Daniel gripped the edge of the desk.
“That’s not possible.”
“There’s a donor file,” Rachel said quietly. “The clinic was required to keep records for every embryo they handled. Baby C’s egg donor is Patricia Ann Hartley.”
“That’s my mother’s maiden name.”
“I know.”
“She’s dead, Rachel. She’s been dead for almost twenty-four years.”
Rachel looked at him with something he couldn’t read. Pain, maybe. Or pity.
“The lab compared her stored sample to Emily’s DNA,” she said. “It matches.”
“Run it again.”
“I did.”
Daniel shook his head violently.
“She was in a car accident. I saw the car. I saw the funeral photos. We buried her.”
“I need you to listen to me,” Rachel said.
“No.”
“Please.”
“You’re wrong. You have to be wrong.”
Rachel reached for a paper on the desk. Her hand trembled.
“I also had the lab compare her DNA to yours.”
That stopped him.
“What?”
“The file didn’t have a biological parent link.”
Daniel frowned.
“What does that mean?”
Rachel’s eyes filled with tears.
“Patricia Hartley was not your biological mother, Daniel.”
The words hung between them like smoke.
“You were adopted.”
Daniel went silent. Every memory he had of his mother suddenly fractured into pieces he couldn’t fit back together.
“You’re lying.”
“I have the reports.”
“You’re lying because you’re angry at me.”
Rachel shook her head.
“I didn’t go looking for this. The military investigation pulled the donor records because someone tampered with our fertility treatment. That’s how we found her name.”
Daniel stepped back from the laptop. His calves hit the chair, and he collapsed into it.
“My mother raised me.”
“I know.”
“She was my mother.”
“She was,” Rachel whispered. “And she loved you. But she was not your birth mother. And she is not dead.”
Daniel’s chest tightened.
“That’s impossible.”
“I called her.”
He couldn’t breathe.
“What?”
“The phone number on the donor file was outdated. But the clinic had a more recent contact because she’d made a request about her stored eggs six years ago. I reached her this morning.”
Daniel stared at the screen.
“You talked to my mother?”
“Her name now is Patricia Andrews. She lives in Oregon.”
“No.”
“She cried when I told her who I was,” Rachel said. “She asked about you. She asked if you were happy. She asked if you still carried that little scar on your chin from when you fell off your bike. She remembered everything, Daniel.”
His vision blurred.
“Why didn’t she come back?”
“I didn’t ask her that. I thought you deserved to hear it from her.”
Daniel wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“She’s alive.”
“Yes.”
“And Emily is…”
“Emily is genetically hers.”
Daniel closed his eyes. Emily. His third daughter. The baby he’d barely met. The baby he hadn’t been present to protect.
“What does that make me?” he whispered.
“It makes you her father.”
He opened his eyes.
“And you?”
Rachel’s voice broke.
“It makes me her mother in every way that matters. But right now, I don’t know what it makes us.”
The silence between them grew heavy.
“She wants to talk to you,” Rachel said.
Daniel’s heart hammered.
“Give me the number.”
Rachel read it aloud. Daniel wrote it on the back of a hospital envelope. His hand was shaking so hard the ink smeared.
“Daniel.”
He looked up.
“After you call her, I need you to understand something,” Rachel said. “This doesn’t change what you did to me.”
“I know.”
“You left me alone while our babies fought to live.”
“I know.”
“You turned your phone off for another woman.”
His throat closed.
“I know.”
Rachel stared at him for a long moment.
“Call her.”
The video ended.
Daniel sat in the dark living room with the envelope in his hand. The house smelled like dust and abandonment. Empty bassinets should have been standing against the wall. Instead, there was nothing.
He dialed the number.
It rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a voice answered. Soft. Older than he remembered.
