Chapter 3
That night, I dreamed my mother was standing behind a glass door.
I could see her face.
I could hear her crying.
But every time I reached for the handle, someone locked it from the other side.
I woke screaming.
My father was beside my bed within seconds.
"Nia!"
I sat upright.
My body shook.
"Daddy."
He held me.
"It's okay. You're home."
I buried my face against his shoulder.
"She might still be alive."
His arms tightened.
"I know."
"How do we find her?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he whispered, "We find out where she was taken. We follow every record."
I looked into his eyes.
"Will you help me?"
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Baby, I've waited twenty-eight years for another chance to find your mother."
The next morning, Grandma Evelyn called an attorney named Rachel Monroe.
Rachel had helped our family with property matters years earlier.
She arrived at Grandma's house carrying a laptop and a notebook.
I showed her the documents.
She read them without interrupting.
Then she looked at me.
"These papers raise serious questions. But we need certified records before drawing conclusions."
I nodded.
"What about Rosewood Recovery Center?"
Rachel searched through an old directory.
The facility had operated near Savannah for several decades.
It closed twelve years earlier.
My heart sank.
"Closed?"
"Yes."
"Then where did the patients go?"
"That's what we'll try to determine."
Rachel explained that hospital and medical records were protected.
We couldn't simply demand confidential information about another adult.
But we could provide our documents to the appropriate authorities, seek lawful access, and investigate the facility's closure.
I listened carefully.
Then asked the question I feared most.
"What if she's dead?"
Rachel's expression softened.
"Then we'll find the truth if the records allow us to. But we shouldn't assume that before we know."
I nodded.
She turned toward Dad.
"Arthur, do you still have Grace's death certificate?"
He looked stunned.
"I kept it."
"Where?"
"In the safe at home."
He left immediately.
When he returned, his hands were shaking.
The death certificate listed Grace Williams as deceased on April 17, 1998.
The same day I was born.
But the transfer authorization showed her leaving the hospital two days later.
Rachel examined both documents.
"These records cannot both accurately describe what happened."
My stomach twisted.
"Could the death certificate be false?"
"It's possible. We need to verify whether it was officially issued and on what evidence."
Grandma leaned forward.
"Samuel arranged the funeral."
Dad nodded.
"He handled everything."
My chest tightened.
"What do you mean everything?"
Dad looked down.
"The hospital called him first. He told me Grace was gone. I was holding you when he came into the room."
I stared.
"Why didn't the hospital tell you directly?"
"I asked to speak with her doctor. Samuel said the doctor was unavailable."
Grandma covered her mouth.
Dad continued.
"He told me Grace had suffered complications and that the hospital needed time to prepare her remains."
I felt sick.
"Did you ever see her body?"
Dad shook his head.
"No."
I looked at Rachel.
"How could that happen?"
She spoke carefully.
"We don't yet know who made which decisions. That's precisely why these documents need independent verification."
I took a long breath.
Then I turned to Grandma.
"Why did Pastor Bennett have so much influence over our family?"
She closed her eyes.
"Because he helped us when we had nothing."
I frowned.
Grandma explained that she and Grandpa had lost their small grocery store before my birth.
Dad's electrical business was barely surviving.
My mother had been working as a nurse.
Then Pastor Bennett offered to help.
He arranged emergency loans.
Connected Dad with clients.
And helped Grandma find work at the church.
"We trusted him," she whispered.
I stared at her.
"Did Mom trust him too?"
Grandma looked away.
"At first."
"What happened?"
She took a long breath.
"Grace discovered something about the church's finances."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"Money that was supposed to be helping families wasn't reaching them."
I looked at Dad.
He stared at Grandma.
"You never told me that."
She began crying.
"Grace asked me not to until she had proof."
I opened Mom's journal again.
Several entries suddenly made sense.
Samuel keeps changing the numbers.
The families aren't receiving what he promised.
I must speak to Arthur.
Then the final entry.
He's threatening our future.
My hands began shaking.
"She was going to expose him."
Grandma nodded.
"I believe so."
Rachel leaned forward.
"Did Grace have documents?"
Grandma hesitated.
"She kept copies of financial records."
"Where are they?"
"I don't know."
I stared at my mother’s journal.
Maybe she had left another clue.
I began reading.
Page after page.
Most described ordinary life.
Dad.
Work.
Pregnancy.
The baby clothes she wanted to buy.
Then I found a folded photograph tucked between two pages.
It showed my mother standing beside a woman I didn't recognize.
They were outside a small medical office.
On the back, someone had written:
Linda knows where the originals are.
I held up the photograph.
"Who is Linda?"
Grandma leaned forward.
Her face drained of color.
"Linda Jackson."
Dad frowned.
"Grace's coworker?"
Grandma nodded.
"She worked at the clinic before Grace transferred to Saint Catherine's."
I looked at Rachel.
"Can we find her?"
She nodded.
"We can try."
That afternoon, Rachel began searching public records.
Linda Jackson had moved several times.
She had worked at a medical practice in Macon.
Then retired.
The latest available address placed her in a small town outside Augusta.
I wanted to leave immediately.
Rachel stopped me.
"Nia, let's contact her first. We don't know whether she's willing or able to help."
I nodded reluctantly.
She sent a letter.
Then left a message at a number associated with Linda.
For two days, we heard nothing.
Meanwhile, Pastor Bennett's church released a statement.
It described Sunday's confrontation as a painful family misunderstanding.
It asked members to respect the pastor's privacy.
It made no mention of my mother's missing years.
No mention of the birth record.
No mention of the medical transfer.
I stared at the statement on my phone.
Then I read the final line.
Pastor Bennett remains committed to truth, healing, and reconciliation.
I nearly threw the phone.
Grandma sat beside me.
"Nia, don't let him pull you into a public argument."
I looked at her.
"He stood at my mother's memorial service."
"I know."
"He watched me cry every Mother's Day."
Tears filled her eyes.
"I know, baby."
I turned away.
"He knew."
Grandma reached for my hand.
"And now we need evidence strong enough that he can't keep hiding behind words."
That evening, Linda Jackson finally called.
I answered before the second ring.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice trembled.
"Is this Nia Williams?"
"Yes."
There was a long silence.
Then she whispered, "You sound like your mother."
My heart stopped.
"Did you know her?"
"Yes, sweetheart."
Tears filled my eyes.
"Please tell me where she is."
Linda began crying.
"I tried to find you years ago."
I gripped the phone.
"Why?"
"Because Grace made me promise something before they took her."
I couldn't breathe.
"What promise?"
Linda's voice broke.
"That if she ever disappeared, I would make sure her daughter knew she hadn't abandoned her."
I covered my mouth.
May you like
Then Linda whispered the words I'd been waiting my entire life to hear.
"Nia, your mother fought to come home."
