Chapter 2
"Samuel Bennett."
I read the name from the bottom of the document.
My voice sounded distant.
Like it belonged to someone else.
Pastor Bennett stood three feet away, his gold-trimmed robe trembling as he gripped the pulpit.
His signature appeared beneath a statement authorizing my mother's transfer to a private medical facility.
Two days after my birth.
Two days after my father had supposedly been told she was dead.
I looked at Arthur.
"Daddy, where did they tell you Mom died?"
His eyes filled.
"At Saint Catherine's Hospital."
"Did you see her?"
He froze.
I felt my stomach drop.
"Dad?"
He shook his head.
"No."
"Why?"
His voice cracked.
"Samuel told me she had suffered terrible complications. He said the doctors recommended I not see her."
I stared at Pastor Bennett.
"You told my father his wife was dead?"
He swallowed.
"Nia, this is much more complicated than you understand."
I felt anger rise.
"Then explain it."
He glanced toward the congregation.
Nearly three hundred people were watching us.
Some stood.
Others whispered.
A few held phones.
Grandma Evelyn grabbed my hand.
"Baby, we're leaving."
I turned toward her.
"No."
She looked stunned.
I had never refused her like that.
"Not until somebody tells me where my mother went."
Pastor Bennett lowered his voice.
"Grace was very ill."
"Was she alive?"
He hesitated.
"Yes."
The word struck me harder than any scream.
My knees weakened.
Dad caught my arm.
"Dear God," he whispered.
I stared at Bennett.
"Was she alive when you told everyone she died?"
He looked away.
Grandma stepped forward.
"Answer her!"
Finally, he nodded.
"Yes."
My father made a sound I had never heard before.
A deep, broken groan.
He stumbled backward and sat heavily in the front pew.
I wanted to run toward him.
But I couldn't move.
Twenty-eight years.
My father had mourned a woman who wasn't dead.
I had grown up visiting an empty grave.
Every Mother's Day, I placed flowers beside a headstone that might have held nobody.
Every birthday, I wished I could hear her voice.
And Pastor Bennett had stood beside us, praying.
I suddenly felt sick.
"Where is she?"
He pressed his lips together.
"I don't know where she is now."
I stared at him.
"Then where did you send her?"
He looked toward Grandma.
She answered.
"Rosewood Recovery Center."
The name meant nothing to me.
"Where is that?"
"Outside Savannah," she whispered.
Pastor Bennett turned sharply.
"Evelyn!"
Grandma faced him.
"I'm finished protecting your secrets."
My heart pounded.
"Protecting?"
I looked at her.
"You knew?"
Tears ran down her cheeks.
"I knew there were things wrong with the story. I didn't know she was alive until recently."
"How recently?"
"Three weeks ago."
The same week Mrs. Ellis died.
I looked at the envelope again.
"You found this after Dorothy passed?"
Grandma nodded.
"Dorothy left instructions with her niece. She wanted me to receive the files if anything happened to her."
Pastor Bennett began shaking his head.
"She had no right."
Grandma turned toward him.
"She had every right to stop a lie."
The church doors opened.
Two ushers approached, clearly unsure what to do.
Pastor Bennett suddenly seemed to remember where he was.
"Everyone, please return to your seats."
Nobody moved.
He reached for another microphone.
"Church family, this is a private misunderstanding."
A woman near the front stood.
Her name was Sister Margaret.
She'd known me since infancy.
"Pastor, did you tell this family their mother was dead when she was alive?"
Bennett stared at her.
"Margaret, please."
"Answer the question."
He didn't.
A murmur spread through the sanctuary.
My father slowly stood.
He walked toward the pulpit.
I had never seen him look so devastated.
"Samuel, you officiated Grace's memorial service."
The pastor swallowed.
"I know."
"You stood beside me while I buried an empty casket?"
Bennett closed his eyes.
My father's voice rose.
"You held my daughter when she cried for her mother!"
I began sobbing.
Dad turned toward me.
His face crumpled.
"I'm sorry, Nia."
I shook my head.
"Daddy, you didn't know."
He pulled me into his arms.
For a moment, I was five years old again.
A little girl crying because the other children had mothers waiting outside school.
Dad had always been there.
He packed my lunches.
Learned to braid my hair.
Attended every performance.
He worked overtime to buy my first piano.
He had never let me feel unwanted.
And now he was discovering that the love of his life might have been taken from him.
Grandma touched his shoulder.
"Arthur, we need to get the documents somewhere safe."
He nodded.
I wiped my face.
"What about my birth certificate?"
Grandma hesitated.
"We'll have to investigate that too."
I stared at Pastor Bennett.
"Are you my biological father?"
The congregation became silent again.
Bennett looked toward Arthur.
Then at me.
"I don't believe a public answer would help anyone."
I felt a sharp pain in my chest.
"That's not an answer."
He remained silent.
Dad stepped between us.
"Whatever that paper says, I raised Nia. She's my daughter."
I reached for his hand.
"And you're my father."
His eyes filled.
Pastor Bennett watched us.
For the first time, I saw something other than fear on his face.
Resentment.
I didn't understand it.
Not yet.
We left the church through a side entrance.
Grandma carried the envelope.
Dad kept his arm around me.
Outside, the Atlanta sunlight felt painfully bright.
I had arrived that morning expecting another ordinary Sunday.
Now I didn't know whether my mother was dead or alive.
I didn't know whether my birth records were genuine.
And I didn't know why the pastor had controlled so much of our family history.
We drove to Grandma's house.
The entire ride was silent.
Once inside, I spread the papers across her dining table.
Grandma brought out a wooden box from her bedroom.
Inside were old letters, photographs, and a small journal.
It belonged to my mother.
I recognized her name.
Grace Williams.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
The first pages described her pregnancy.
She wrote about Dad bringing her oranges because she craved them.
She wrote about buying a yellow blanket for me.
She wrote about how excited they were.
Then I reached an entry dated two weeks before my birth.
Samuel came again. Arthur doesn't know. I'm beginning to regret ever trusting him.
I looked up.
"Grandma?"
Her face changed.
"What?"
I showed her the page.
She read it.
Then sat down slowly.
"Dear God."
I turned the next page.
My mother had written only four words.
He's threatening our future.
I stared at the sentence.
Then I looked at Dad.
May you like
For the first time, I wondered whether the lie about my mother's death had begun long before I was born.
And whether Pastor Bennett had hidden her because she knew something he couldn't afford to have exposed.
