Chapter 8: What My Father Finally Said
He was already there when I arrived.
Seated at a corner table, both hands around a cup of coffee he hadn't touched.
He looked older than he had two days ago.
Older than he had at the graduation.
I sat down across from him.
He looked at me for a long moment.
"You found her," he said.
"Yes."
"Is she alright?"
"She's been alright on her own for a long time." I used the same words I had used with Ruth Halliday and they felt just as true the second time.
"No thanks to either of you."
He nodded.
Didn't argue.
"I need to know your version," I said.
"From the beginning.
All of it."
He turned the coffee cup slowly in his hands.
"The original arrangement was Diane's idea," he said.
"She had always wanted a child.
We had tried for years.
When she found out Cecelia — her cousin — was pregnant and alone and in no position to care for a baby, she came to me with a plan.
A temporary placement.
Just until Cecelia stabilized."
"That's not what happened."
"No." He was quiet for a moment.
"After six months, Diane told me Cecelia had signed over her rights permanently.
She said Cecelia had decided it was best for the child.
That she had agreed voluntarily."
"And you believed her."
He looked at the table.
"I wanted to believe her."
"Did you ever see the document?"
"She showed me a paper.
I signed where she told me to sign." A pause.
"I didn't read it carefully enough.
I told myself it was what Cecelia wanted."
"She forged Cecelia's signature."
He said nothing.
"Dad." I leaned forward.
"She forged the signature.
We have the original document.
A caseworker witnessed it.
The signatures don't match."
His jaw tightened.
His hands went still around the cup.
"I know," he said.
The word landed between us like something heavy dropped from a height.
"You *know.*"
"I suspected.
For years." He looked up.
"Three years after the placement became permanent, I found paperwork in Diane's files.
A copy of something that didn't match what she had told me.
I asked her about it once." He stopped.
"What did she say?"
"She said that if I ever raised the question again, she would make sure I was implicated.
She said my signature was on the permanent transfer.
She said no one would believe it was only her." His voice was low and flat.
"I had built a career.
I had a reputation.
And I had already raised you for three years by then.
I told myself — "
"You told yourself it was too late to fix."
"Yes."
I sat back.
Looked at him.
Looked at this man who had driven me to school and attended every basketball game and helped me with college applications and called himself my father.
"She threatened you," I said.
"The same way she threatened Cecelia."
"Yes."
"And you stayed quiet for fifteen years."
"Yes." The word came out like something final.
Like a door he had been leaning against for a long time finally opening.
"I am not asking you to forgive me.
I kept the notebook because I didn't know what else to do.
I thought — someday.
Somehow." He exhaled.
"It wasn't courage.
I know that."
"I need you to make a statement," I said.
"To a lawyer.
Everything you just told me, on record."
He was quiet for a long time.
Then: "Will it help Cecelia?"
"Yes."
He nodded.
Slowly.
Once.
Like a man who has been choosing between two versions of himself for a decade and a half and has finally chosen.
"Tell me when and where," he said.
I picked up my phone to call Patricia Osei.
Outside the coffee shop window, a car slowed on the street.
A dark sedan, engine idling.
My father glanced up, then back down at his cup.
"She had me followed," he said quietly.
"I noticed it this morning."
I looked at the car.
It didn't move.
"How much time do we have?" I asked.
"Not much," he said.
"She's going to do something.
I can feel it.
May you like
When Diane feels cornered, she doesn't wait."
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