Chapter 9: The Other Daughter
Her name was Patricia.
Margaret's researcher found her in four days.
Born 1961, adopted at six weeks, raised in Shropshire by a couple named Dowell.
She had kept the name Patricia Dowell her entire life, had married, had children, had worked as a primary school teacher for thirty years, and had retired to a small house in Ludlow.
She had registered with the adoption contact register in 1998, looking for her birth mother.
My mother had never registered.
Margaret handed me the file on a Wednesday morning and I read it twice at her desk without speaking.
"She's been looking," I said.
"Since 1998.
Yes."
"My mother never—" I stopped.
Started again.
"She didn't know Patricia was looking?"
"We can't know that.
The register requires both parties to register for contact to be made.
If your mother never registered, Patricia would have had no way to reach her." Margaret's voice was gentle.
"It's possible your mother didn't know the register existed.
It's possible she was afraid.
It's possible she intended to register and never found the moment."
I thought about that.
A woman in Shropshire, waiting.
My mother in her yellow kitchen, carrying something she couldn't put down.
"Does Patricia know about any of this?" I asked.
"Not yet.
That's your decision, not mine."
I closed the file.
"Richard knew about her," I said.
"He found out two years before Mum passed.
Which means he had time to contact Patricia himself.
To use her."
Margaret's expression shifted slightly.
"That's a possibility I hadn't—"
"If he contacted Patricia.
If he told her that Dorothy Whitfield was her birth mother.
If he made her believe that Dorothy had wanted to leave something to her and that I was contesting it—" I looked at Margaret.
"Could he use Patricia as a witness?"
Margaret was very still.
"He could attempt to," she said slowly.
"A biological child of the deceased, claiming she was promised an inheritance — it wouldn't affect the deed, but it could complicate the emotional picture in front of a judge.
It could make you look like you're denying a vulnerable woman her birthright." She reached for her phone.
"I need to make a call."
She stepped out.
I sat alone with the file.
Patricia Dowell.
Retired schoolteacher.
Sixty-three years old.
She had wanted to find her mother, and her mother had never come.
And Richard had known.
Margaret came back in seven minutes.
Her face told me before she spoke.
"His solicitor filed an additional witness statement this morning," she said.
"From a Patricia Dowell of Ludlow.
She states that Richard Calloway contacted her eighteen months ago, informed her of her birth mother's identity, and told her that Dorothy Whitfield had expressed a wish for the property to be held in trust for all her children — including Patricia — and that you were attempting to seize it for yourself."
The room tilted slightly.
"He told her I was the villain," I said.
"Yes."
"She doesn't know me.
She doesn't know any of this.
He found a grieving woman who had spent twenty-five years looking for her mother and he handed her a story."
"Yes," Margaret said again.
I stood up.
Sat back down.
"I need to talk to her," I said.
"Emma—"
"Not to pressure her.
Not to argue.
I need to talk to her because she deserves to know the truth.
She deserves to know that her mother kept a tin of biscuits on the second shelf of the pantry and painted her kitchen yellow and talked about her children constantly." My voice cracked on the last word.
I steadied it.
"She deserves to know who her mother actually was.
Not the version Richard sold her."
May you like
Margaret looked at me for a long time.
"I'll get you her number," she said.
