Chapter 5
I couldn't stop staring at the words.
Paternity dispute.
Arthur Williams.
Samuel Bennett.
My hands felt numb.
Dad sat beside me, reading the same document.
His expression was impossible to describe.
Pain.
Confusion.
Fear.
For twenty-eight years, he had loved me without hesitation.
Now a piece of paper was suggesting that someone had questioned whether I was his biological daughter.
I looked at him.
"Daddy?"
He turned.
"Yes, baby?"
"Did you ever think I wasn't yours?"
His eyes filled immediately.
"No."
I swallowed.
"Never?"
He shook his head.
"Not for one second."
I began crying.
He pulled me into his arms.
"Nia, listen to me."
I looked up.
"I was there when you were born. I held you. I changed your diapers. I taught you how to ride a bicycle."
His voice trembled.
"I stayed up when you were sick. I cheered when you graduated. I watched you become the woman you are today."
He wiped my tears.
"Nothing on that paper changes that."
I hugged him tightly.
But I still needed answers.
Not because I doubted his love.
Because I wanted to know why Pastor Bennett had placed himself between my parents.
Rachel studied the document.
"This doesn't establish biological paternity. It only shows that someone raised a question or requested testing."
I nodded.
"Can we find the results?"
"We can investigate whether testing actually occurred."
Grandma looked furious.
"Samuel did this."
Rachel spoke carefully.
"We need evidence before concluding who initiated it."
Grandma shook her head.
"He wanted Grace under his control."
I looked at her.
"What do you mean?"
She stared at the floor.
Then whispered, "Your mother told me Samuel had become obsessed with her."
My stomach tightened.
"Obsessed?"
Grandma nodded.
"He offered her promotions. Extra money. He kept asking her to meet privately."
Dad looked horrified.
"Why didn't Grace tell me?"
Grandma began crying.
"She tried. But you were working constantly, and she was afraid you'd confront him before she had proof about the finances."
I looked at Mom's letter.
I chose you.
Always.
Suddenly, those words made painful sense.
Maybe Bennett had wanted more than money.
Maybe he'd wanted my mother.
And when she refused him, he'd tried to destroy the life she'd chosen.
But I couldn't let suspicion become certainty.
We needed proof.
Rachel began tracing the medical records.
She contacted the state agency responsible for historical vital records.
She requested confirmation of the original birth registration.
She also sought information about the death certificate and the transfer documents through lawful channels.
Then she contacted authorities about the suspected falsified records and possible financial wrongdoing.
The process was slow.
Painfully slow.
Every morning, I checked my phone.
Every evening, I reread Mom's letter.
And every night, I wondered whether she was still alive.
Then, eleven days after meeting Linda, we received our first significant answer.
The state confirmed that the death certificate in Dad's possession did not match a valid death registration for Grace Williams.
I stared at Rachel.
"What does that mean?"
"It means the document you've been relying on appears not to be an authentic state-issued death certificate."
Dad covered his mouth.
Grandma began crying.
I felt sick.
Twenty-eight years.
An entire life built around a document that wasn't genuine.
Rachel continued.
"The state has no corresponding death registration under Grace's identifying information for that date."
I gripped the table.
"So she might be alive."
"Yes. But we still need to establish what happened afterward."
I looked at Dad.
He was staring at the wall.
Then he whispered, "I buried an empty coffin."
I reached for his hand.
He began sobbing.
I had never seen my father so broken.
That afternoon, I visited the cemetery alone.
I'd gone there every Mother's Day since childhood.
The headstone was simple.
GRACE WILLIAMS.
BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER.
I stood in front of it holding the photograph Linda had given me.
My mother smiling.
Me wrapped in a yellow blanket.
I stared at the stone.
"Mom?"
My voice broke.
"I don't know where you are."
Tears rolled down my face.
"But I'm looking."
I knelt and touched the cold marble.
"For twenty-eight years, I thought you left before I could know you."
I swallowed.
"Now I know you tried to come home."
I began crying harder.
"I wish you could hear me."
A breeze moved through the trees.
I closed my eyes.
Then whispered, "I haven't given up."
When I returned home, Dad was waiting.
He held two mugs of tea.
I sat beside him.
For a while, we didn't speak.
Then he asked, "Do you want to know whether we're biologically related?"
I looked at him.
The question frightened me.
Not because I thought our relationship would change.
Because I knew how much he had already lost.
"Daddy, I don't need a test to know you're my father."
He smiled sadly.
"I know."
He took my hand.
"But the truth matters. To you. To Grace. To me."
I nodded slowly.
"If you're ready, I am."
He squeezed my hand.
"Then we'll find out together."
We arranged a legally documented DNA test.
Rachel also continued investigating the old paternity paperwork.
But before the results returned, another discovery changed our priorities.
The state health agency located records from Rosewood Recovery Center's closure.
Some former patients had been transferred to other facilities.
Others had been discharged.
A number of historical records were incomplete.
Then Rachel called me.
"Nia, are you sitting down?"
My heart began pounding.
"Yes."
"We found a transfer entry associated with a woman whose identifying information may match Grace."
I covered my mouth.
"Where was she sent?"
"A long-term care facility in South Georgia."
"Is she still there?"
Rachel paused.
"We haven't confirmed that yet."
I felt tears rising.
"What's the facility called?"
"Willow Creek Care Center."
I repeated the name.
Willow Creek.
For the first time, we had a specific place to investigate.
That evening, Rachel contacted the facility's administration.
Because of privacy laws, they wouldn't confirm details to us immediately.
But they agreed to review the documentation through their legal department.
We provided the available records.
Birth information.
Marriage records.
The transfer documents.
The old letter.
And evidence concerning the questionable death certificate.
Then we waited.
Three days later, the facility's administrator called Rachel.
A patient had been admitted years earlier under the name Grace Holloway.
Her age and background were consistent with parts of the historical record.
The administrator couldn't establish that she was my mother.
But the facility was willing to cooperate with lawful verification.
I began crying.
Grace Holloway.
My mother's maiden name.
I looked at Dad.
His hands were shaking.
"Arthur," Grandma whispered, "it could be her."
Dad closed his eyes.
Then he looked at me.
"Let's go find your mother."
I nodded.
But before we could travel, Rachel called with another warning.
Someone had contacted Willow Creek asking questions about Grace Holloway shortly after our inquiry.
My stomach tightened.
"Who?"
"The caller identified himself as a representative of Greater Hope Baptist Church."
I felt cold.
Pastor Bennett.
Even now, he might be trying to reach her before we did.
I looked at Dad.
"We have to go."
May you like
He nodded.
And for the first time in twenty-eight years, my father began preparing to see a woman he had been forced to mourn.
