Chapter 4: What Patricia Kept
I didn't move.
I just waited.
Sam got up and went to the hallway.
I heard the closet door, the sound of something being pulled from the shelf — the high shelf, the one we used for things we didn't need often.
He came back with a manila envelope and set it on the table between us.
It was already open.
He'd had it for three weeks.
"Patricia didn't just keep records of the call Claudia made," he said.
"She kept records of everything.
She was meticulous.
She said she'd worked in adoption services for thirty-one years and she kept files on every case that ever felt wrong to her." He sat down.
"David's case felt wrong to her from the beginning.
Not because of us.
Because of where he came from."
I looked at the envelope.
I didn't touch it yet.
"What do you mean, where he came from?"
"His birth mother's name was Angela Reyes," Sam said.
"She was twenty-two when David was born.
She was alone — no partner listed, no family support.
She surrendered him voluntarily.
That part is all in the official record." He paused.
"But Patricia had notes that weren't in the official record.
She'd spoken to Angela twice before the surrender was finalized.
Angela had told her something."
"What?"
Sam slid a single sheet from the envelope.
A photocopy of handwritten notes, the ink slightly faded, the handwriting careful and small.
I picked it up.
The notes were dated.
Nine years ago, two months before David's adoption was finalized.
Patricia's handwriting at the top: *Second conversation, A.
Reyes, voluntary.
Client distressed.
States she has no choice.
States family pressure.
States she wants contact record preserved for the child if he ever asks.*
I read it twice.
"She wanted contact preserved," I said slowly.
"Angela wanted David to be able to find her someday."
"Yes."
"Did the agency tell us that?"
Sam said nothing.
That was the answer.
I set the paper down.
"They were supposed to tell us that.
At the start.
That's — Sam, that's part of the process.
If the birth parent requests a contact record—"
"I know."
"We would have honored that.
We always said we would honor that.
If David ever wanted to know—"
"I know." Sam's voice was careful.
"Patricia said she flagged it internally.
She said it was supposed to be included in our disclosure packet.
She doesn't know why it wasn't.
She retired two years after David's adoption and she said it had been sitting in her conscience ever since." He looked at the envelope.
"She found us because of a news piece.
A local thing, from four years ago — remember when the community center did that story on families who'd adopted through the county program?"
I remembered.
A photographer had come to the center's family day.
There had been a short article.
David had been in one of the photos, standing next to Sam with a juice box, squinting into the sun.
"She recognized David from the photo," Sam said.
"It took her another two years to decide to call."
I sat with that for a moment.
A retired social worker, carrying a piece of paper for nine years, finally picking up the phone because she saw a boy squinting into the sun with a juice box.
"Where is Angela now?" I asked.
"Patricia didn't know.
She had an address from nine years ago.
Nothing more recent."
I looked at the photocopy again.
The careful handwriting.
*States she wants contact record preserved for the child if he ever asks.*
"David is nine," I said.
"Yes."
"He's never asked."
"No."
"But someday he might."
Sam looked at me steadily.
"Yes.
Someday he might."
I folded the paper carefully and slid it back into the envelope.
I held the envelope in both hands for a moment, feeling the weight of it — which was almost nothing, just paper, just a few sheets — and yet.
"We have to find her," I said.
Sam nodded slowly.
"I think so too."
"Not for us.
For him.
So that when he asks — if he asks — we have something to give him.
Not a closed door."
"Yes."
I set the envelope on the table.
Outside, I could hear the last of the guests saying goodbye in the front hallway, Ruth's voice low and kind, the front door opening and closing.
The house was emptying out.
In a few minutes it would be just us and the quiet and David asleep upstairs.
"I'm angry," I said.
"About the agency.
About what they didn't tell us."
"I know."
"And I'm angry about Claudia."
"I know that too."
"But right now—" I stopped.
I pressed my hand flat on the envelope.
"Right now I just want to make sure that if our son ever looks up from whatever he's doing at fifteen or twenty or forty and says, *I want to know where I came from* — I want to be able to hand him something real."
Sam reached across the table and covered my hand with his.
We sat like that for a while.
The kitchen light hummed above us.
From upstairs, not a sound.
Then my phone buzzed on the counter.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*My name is Angela.
I think you have my son.
I've been trying to find the courage to reach out for a very long time.
I'm sorry if this is wrong.
Please don't be frightened.
I just want to know that he's okay.*
I stared at the screen.
"Sam," I said.
He looked up.
I turned the phone so he could read it.
May you like
The color left his face.
Then, slowly, it came back.
