“But not before she panicked. She knows something, Nathan. She definitely knows something. An innocent woman would have been confused. Margaret Sullivan was terrified.”
Whatever happened that night in 1997, she’d been carrying it for 28 years. And now, so would I.
Three days later, the email arrived. Not to me directly. Gerald wasn’t that subtle. He sent it to our entire extended family. Aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, people I hadn’t seen since childhood. 47 recipients. My mother, my grandmother, and I were all CCd. The subject line read, “Regarding Tori’s wedding.” I read it in my car, parked outside the hospital where I worked, my hands trembling against the steering wheel.
Dear family, as many of you know, I have carried a burden for 28 years. I have endured doubt about my daughter’s true parentage and I have watched my wife refused to admit the truth. I have asked Tori to take a DNA test and share the results with our family before her wedding. She has so far refused, which I believe speaks for itself. Until this matter is resolved publicly, I will not be attending the ceremony. I hope you will all understand my position. Attached is a family photograph from Tori’s christening. I invite you to look closely and draw your own conclusions. Regards, Gerald Townsend.
The attachment was a photo I remembered from my grandmother’s mantle. Me at three months old, cradled in my mother’s arms, blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin, surrounded by Gerald, Marcus, and a dozen brunette relatives. Gerald had circled my face in red and added a caption, “Spot the difference.”
Within hours, the responses started flooding in. Some defended my mother. Most just asked questions—careful, probing, curious about the drama.
Marcus called me that night.
“Just do what Dad wants,”
he said, his voice tight with frustration.
“You’re making this worse. You’re ruining his reputation.”
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