Nathan refused.
“We’re getting married,”
he said, holding my face in his hands.
“Period. Your father’s issues are not our issues. We don’t postpone our life for his tantrum.”
But I couldn’t move forward without the truth, and the truth was locked inside Margaret Sullivan’s memory.
I called her again and again, five times in three days. Each call going straight to voicemail. On the sixth try, I left a different message.
“Mrs. Sullivan, my name is Tory Townsend. I know you remember that name. I have DNA evidence, certified, legally admissible DNA evidence that proves a baby was switched at St. Mary’s Hospital on March 15th, 1997. I’m not looking to blame you. I’m not looking to sue anyone. I just need to know who I am.”
I paused, steadying my breath.
“If you don’t call me back, my next call will be to a lawyer. I’ll subpoena the hospital records. I’ll file a formal investigation, and whatever you’ve been hiding for 28 years will come out in the worst possible way.”
I waited one hour, two. At 4:17 p.m., my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Thursday, 200 p.m. Riverside Diner, Bridgeport. Come alone.
I stared at the message for a long time. Then I texted back.
“I’ll be there.”
Whatever Margaret Sullivan had been carrying for 28 years, she was finally ready to let it go. The question was whether I was ready to hear it.
Riverside Diner was the kind of place time forgot. Vinyl booths patched with duct tape, a jukebox that only played oldies, and coffee that had probably been brewing since the Reagan administration. Margaret Sullivan sat in the corner booth, her back to the wall. She was 72, smaller than I’d imagined, with silver hair pulled into a tight bun and hands that trembled against her coffee cup.
She looked up when I slid into the seat across from her.
“You look just like her,”
she said quietly.
“Linda, your your biological mother. Same hair, same eyes.”
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