Chapter 8: The Girl in Vermont
Patricia moved quickly.
Within forty-eight hours she had filed a formal complaint with the police, submitted Ruth's recorded conversation and the forged document as evidence, and contacted a family law specialist in Vermont named Daniel Osei who had handled cases involving wrongful adoptions before.
Daniel called me on a Wednesday evening, three days after the coffee shop.
"I've reviewed everything Patricia sent," he said.
"The forged signature is the strongest piece.
Combined with Ruth's testimony and the timestamp on the photograph, you have a credible case."
"What about Lily's adoptive parents?" I said.
"I've made discreet contact through a colleague in Vermont.
They were not aware of any irregularity in the adoption.
They believed it was fully legal.
They're — understandably — in shock."
"Are they going to fight this?"
A pause.
"They're going to want to protect their daughter," Daniel said carefully.
"Which I think you understand."
"I do," I said.
"I'm not asking to take her away from them.
I want her to know the truth.
I want her to have the choice."
"That's the right approach," he said.
"And it's the approach most likely to actually work.
If you go in with legal force, she closes.
She's fifteen.
She'll feel like a prize being fought over.
But if the first contact is gentle — if it's a letter, or a message, something she can hold and read in her own time — there's a real chance she'll want to meet you."
"A letter," I said.
"Would you be willing to write one?"
I looked across the kitchen.
Logan was at the table doing homework, or pretending to.
He'd been pretending to do homework for three days.
His pen hadn't moved in twenty minutes.
"Yes," I said.
"I'll write one."
"I'll coordinate with her parents first.
They need to be the ones who give it to her.
This has to go through them, not around them."
I wrote the letter that night.
I wrote it seven times.
The first six were too much — too much explanation, too much history, too much need.
The seventh was one page.
I told her my name.
I told her she had a twin brother named Logan who had planted a garden for her every year since he was five.
I told her she had my eyes.
I told her I wasn't asking for anything.
I told her that whatever she felt when she read this — anger, confusion, nothing at all — was completely allowed.
I told her she could write back or she could not write back and both were okay.
I told her I had thought about her every single day.
I didn't tell her about Dora.
I didn't tell her about Marcus.
That was a conversation for later, if she wanted it.
I sealed it and sent it to Daniel.
Then I sat at the kitchen table and Logan came and sat beside me and neither of us said anything for a long time.
"What if she doesn't write back?" he said eventually.
"Then we wait," I said.
"And we don't push."
"And if she does?"
I looked at him.
My son.
Fifteen years old, born twelve minutes before his sister, carrying her in some quiet part of himself every day of his life without ever being asked to.
"Then we figure it out together," I said.
"All of us."
He nodded.
He picked up his pen.
He still didn't write anything, but he held it, and that felt like enough.
Eleven days later, Daniel called.
"She read the letter," he said.
My heart stopped.
"She read it twice, apparently.
Her mother was with her." He paused.
"She has some questions.
Specific ones.
She'd like to ask them — not by letter.
She wants a video call."
I pressed my hand over my mouth.
"She asked one thing specifically," Daniel continued.
"She wants to know if the garden is still there."
I made a sound I didn't plan to make.
"Tell her," I managed.
"Tell her Logan replanted it.
The morning after we found the box.
He went out and replanted every single one."
May you like
Daniel was quiet for a moment.
"I'll tell her," he said.
