“Whatever this shows,”
she’d said,
“you’re my daughter. Nothing changes that.”
My father’s was stolen. A few strands of hair plucked from the brush he kept in the guest bathroom, the one I’d used every Thanksgiving and Christmas for years, pretending I didn’t notice the way he flinched when I reached past him for the soap.
The technician at Jean Trust, a calm woman named Dr. Reyes, explained the process. Results in three weeks, legally admissible if needed, complete confidentiality. I paid extra for expedited processing. My grandmother insisted on covering the cost.
That afternoon, I tried calling Margaret Sullivan. The phone rang six times before someone picked up. A woman’s voice, older, trembling slightly.
“Hello, Mrs. Sullivan. My name is Tory Townsend. I was born at St. Mary’s Hospital on March 15th, 1997. I believe you were the head nurse that night, and I—”
“I can’t help you.”
The words came fast, panicked.
“Mrs. Sullivan, please, I just need to ask—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please don’t contact me again.”
Click.
I stared at my phone for a long moment. Nathan looked up from his drafting table.
“What happened?”
“She hung up on me,”
I said, setting the phone down slowly.
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