Sixteen Birthdays Without Her Son
Chapter 10 - Sixteen Birthdays Without Her Son
We met at a small lakeside house in northern Michigan.
Rebecca helped arrange the reunion privately, with precautions to protect everyone involved.
I arrived with Mia and Eleanor.
The drive felt endless.
Every mile seemed to carry another question.
Would she recognize me?
Would I recognize her?
Could two people who had been separated for sixteen years simply become mother and son again?
When we reached the house, a woman stood on the porch.
She wore a pale blue cardigan.
Her dark hair was streaked with silver.
She looked smaller than I'd imagined.
Older than the photographs.
But her eyes were the same.
She stared at me.
I stepped out of the car.
Neither of us moved.
Then she raised one trembling hand.
"Julian?"
My throat closed.
"Mom?"
She came down the steps.
At first she walked.
Then she hurried.
I met her halfway across the yard.
She wrapped her arms around me.
And I held her.
For sixteen years, I hadn't known what it felt like to be held by the woman who gave birth to me.
Now she was crying against my chest.
"My baby."
I closed my eyes.
"I'm here."
She touched my face.
My hair.
My shoulders.
As though she needed to confirm I was real.
"You're so grown up."
I laughed through tears.
"So are you."
She began laughing and crying at the same time.
Then she pressed her forehead against mine.
"I never stopped looking."
"I know."
"I never stopped."
"I know, Mom."
We stood in the yard until the cold made Mia remind us to go inside.
The living room was filled with books, handmade quilts, and framed photographs.
On the mantel sat a picture of me as a seven-year-old.
Beside it were sixteen birthday cards.
I stared at them.
Catherine followed my gaze.
"I wrote one every year."
I picked up the first.
It was addressed to Julian on his eighth birthday.
Inside, she'd written about the toys she hoped I was playing with and the friends she hoped I'd made.
The next card was for my ninth birthday.
Then my tenth.
My eleventh.
She wrote about the changing seasons, ordinary things she wished we could share, and how much she missed hearing my laugh.
Some cards were cheerful.
Others were heartbreaking.
The one for my eighteenth birthday simply said:
I hope someone taught you that you are worthy of love.
I sat down.
Catherine stood beside me.
"I'm sorry."
I looked up.
"For what?"
"For missing everything."
I shook my head.
"You didn't choose that."
She sat beside me.
"I wanted to teach you how to drive. I wanted to meet your friends. I wanted to embarrass you at graduation."
I laughed softly.
"You would've been great at that."
She smiled.
Then began crying again.
I took her hand.
"You didn't stop being my mother because you weren't there."
She gripped my fingers.
And for a moment, the years between us seemed a little less impossible.
That evening, Catherine met Mia properly.
She thanked her for loving me.
Mia hugged her.
"He's annoying, but he's a good brother."
Catherine laughed.
"I remember."
I looked at them.
My sister.
My mother.
Two women from different parts of my life who both loved me.
For years, I'd imagined that discovering my birth family might mean losing the family I'd known.
Instead, I was beginning to understand that family could grow.
Then Catherine looked at Eleanor.
Her expression changed.
"Eleanor."
Eleanor stepped forward.
The sisters stared at each other.
For sixteen years, they'd been separated by fear, lies, and a man who controlled their family.
Finally, Eleanor crossed the room.
They embraced.
Neither spoke.
They didn't need to.
Later, Catherine showed me a small wooden box.
Inside were photographs of Gabriel.
My father.
She told me how they met.
How he proposed.
How he cried when I was born.
How he used to carry me around the house pretending I was an airplane.
Then her expression grew serious.
"Julian, there is something about your father's death you need to know."
I looked at her.
She took a breath.
"Gabriel discovered that Charles was moving money out of the company."
I nodded.
"Eleanor told me."
"But that's not the whole story."
I waited.
Catherine looked toward the window.
"Gabriel had arranged to meet federal investigators."
My heart hammered.
"He was going to report Charles?"
She nodded.
"And two days before that meeting, his car went off the bridge."
I stared at her.
Catherine opened the wooden box again.
From beneath the photographs, she removed a sealed envelope.
"Before he died, Gabriel gave this to me."
I looked at it.
"What is it?"
Her eyes filled.
May you like
"Copies of the documents he was taking to the authorities."
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