PART 2 \u2014 THE WOMAN BEHIND THE DOOR
\nI screamed because the woman standing behind the door had my mother\u2019s face.
\nNot similar.
\nNot vaguely familiar.
\nHer face.
\nFor several seconds, neither of us moved. She looked to be in her late sixties, her silver hair pulled loosely behind her head, but beneath the wrinkles and years, I recognized the same dark eyes from every photograph Frank had kept of my mother.
\nThe same narrow nose.
\nThe same small scar above the left eyebrow.
\nEven the way she tilted her head was familiar.
\nMy knees nearly gave out.
\n\u201cWho are you?\u201d
\nThe woman stared at me as if she\u2019d been waiting decades to hear my voice.
\nThen tears filled her eyes.
\n\u201cOh, Claire.\u201d
\nI stepped backward so quickly that I nearly fell off the porch.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cHow do you know my name?\u201d
\nShe covered her mouth with one trembling hand.
\n\u201cBecause I gave it to you.\u201d
\nMy heart stopped.
\n\u201cNo.\u201d
\n\u201cPlease come inside.\u201d
\n\u201cNo.\u201d
\nI shook my head violently.
\n\u201cMy mother is dead.\u201d
\nThe woman\u2019s face crumpled.
\n\u201cI know that\u2019s what Frank told you.\u201d
\nHearing his name from her mouth made something cold crawl through me.
\n\u201cWho are you?\u201d
\nShe looked straight into my eyes.
\n\u201cMy name is Margaret.\u201d
\nShe paused.
\n\u201cAnd I\u2019m your mother.\u201d
\nI laughed.
\nI actually laughed because the alternative was screaming again.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u201cMy mother was named Rebecca.\u201d
\n\u201cI know.\u201d
\n\u201cShe died when I was five.\u201d
\n\u201cI know.\u201d
\n\u201cI went to her funeral.\u201d
\nMargaret closed her eyes.
\n\u201cI know that too.\u201d
\nMy anger exploded.
\n\u201cYou expect me to believe my father staged my mother\u2019s death?\u201d
\n\u201cNo.\u201d
\nHer answer came so quickly that it silenced me.
\n\u201cFrank didn\u2019t stage anything.\u201d
\n\u201cThen explain why you\u2019re standing here telling me you\u2019re my mother.\u201d
\nMargaret glanced toward the street.
\n\u201cBecause the woman you remember as your mother wasn\u2019t your biological mother.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t breathe.
\nThe porch seemed to shift beneath my feet.
\nMargaret opened the door wider.
\n\u201cPlease, Claire. There are things you need to see.\u201d
\nEvery sensible part of me told me to leave.
\nTo drive back to the hospital.
\nTo sit beside Frank\u2019s body and pretend he\u2019d never handed me that address.
\nInstead, I walked inside.
\nThe house smelled faintly of cinnamon and old books.
\nMargaret led me into a small living room.
\nAnd that was when I saw the photographs.
\nThere were dozens.
\nOn shelves.
\nOn the fireplace.
\nInside frames covering an entire wall.
\nPhotographs of me.
\nMy first-grade school picture.
\nMy high school graduation.
\nMy wedding.
\nA photograph of me holding my newborn daughter outside the hospital.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Even a picture from last Christmas.
\nI stared at the wall in horror.
\n\u201cWhere did you get these?\u201d
\nMargaret didn\u2019t answer.
\nI turned toward her.
\n\u201cWhere did you get pictures of my daughter?\u201d
\n\u201cFrank.\u201d
\nOne word.
\nIt felt like a knife.
\n\u201cFrank sent them?\u201d
\n\u201cFor thirty-seven years.\u201d
\nMy stomach twisted.
\nMargaret walked toward an old wooden cabinet and removed a thick bundle of envelopes tied with blue ribbon.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
She placed them on the table.
\nEvery envelope had the same handwriting.
\nFrank\u2019s handwriting.
\nMargaret untied the ribbon.
\n\u201cHe wrote to me every year.\u201d
\nShe handed me the first letter.
\nThe paper had yellowed with age.
\nAt the top was a date from when I was six.
\nI recognized Frank\u2019s handwriting immediately.
\nClaire started first grade today. She cried when I dropped her off, but when I picked her up she couldn\u2019t stop talking about her teacher. She\u2019s doing well. I promised you I\u2019d keep her safe. I intend to keep that promise.<\/p>\n
My hands began shaking.
\nI grabbed another.
\nClaire graduated today. You would have been proud. She looked so much like you when she walked across that stage.
\nAnother.
\nClaire is getting married next month. She asked me to walk her down the aisle. I don\u2019t deserve that honor, but I couldn\u2019t say no.
\nI dropped the letters.
\n\u201cWhat does he mean he didn\u2019t deserve it?\u201d
\nMargaret sat slowly on the couch.
\n\u201cBecause Frank spent his entire life believing he stole something from you.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat?\u201d
\n\u201cThe truth.\u201d
\nI stared at her.
\n\u201cThen tell me.\u201d
\nShe looked toward the photographs.
\n\u201cRebecca was my younger sister.\u201d
\nThe name hit me like a physical blow.
\n\u201cYour sister?\u201d
\nMargaret nodded.
\n\u201cShe couldn\u2019t have children.\u201d
\nI remembered my mother\u2014Rebecca\u2014sitting beside my bed when I was little, brushing my hair and singing softly.
\n\u201cShe was my mother.\u201d
\n\u201cShe loved you like one.\u201d
\n\u201cShe WAS my mother.\u201d
\nMargaret\u2019s eyes filled again.
\n\u201cYes. In every way that mattered, she was.\u201d
\nI felt tears burning behind my eyes.
\n\u201cThen why did she have me?\u201d
\nMargaret looked down at her hands.
\n\u201cBecause I gave you to her.\u201d
\nSilence swallowed the room.
\n\u201cYou gave me away?\u201d
\n\u201cI thought I was saving you.\u201d
\n\u201cFrom what?\u201d
\nMargaret\u2019s expression changed.
\nFear replaced grief.
\n\u201cFrom your father.\u201d
\nI stared at her.
\n\u201cFrank?\u201d
\n\u201cNo.\u201d
\nShe leaned closer.
\n\u201cFrank wasn\u2019t your biological father.\u201d
\n\u201cI know that. He was my stepfather.\u201d
\nMargaret shook her head.
\n\u201cThat\u2019s not what I mean.\u201d
\nShe reached beneath the coffee table and pulled out a small metal box.
\n\u201cI was nineteen when you were born. Your biological father was older. Powerful. Married.\u201d
\nMy mouth went dry.
\n\u201cWho?\u201d
\nMargaret opened the box.
\nInside was a newspaper clipping.
\nShe handed it to me.
\nThe photograph showed a young man standing beside several police officers outside a courthouse.
\nEven though the clipping was decades old, I recognized him.
\nEveryone would.
\nHe had later become one of the most famous businessmen in the state.
\nA man whose face had appeared on television countless times.
\nA man who had died twelve years earlier.
\nI stared at Margaret.
\n\u201cYou\u2019re saying he\u2019s my father?\u201d
\n\u201cYes.\u201d
\n\u201cWhy would I need protection from him?\u201d
\nMargaret swallowed.
\n\u201cBecause when I told him I was pregnant, he didn\u2019t ask whether the baby was healthy.\u201d
\nHer voice dropped.
\n\u201cHe asked how much money it would take to make the baby disappear.\u201d
\nA chill moved through me.
\nMargaret continued.
\n\u201cI refused.\u201d
\nShe looked toward the front window as though someone might still be watching.
\n\u201cThree nights later, someone broke into my apartment.\u201d
\nI felt sick.
\n\u201cWhat happened?\u201d
\n\u201cI wasn\u2019t home.\u201d
\nShe closed her eyes.
\n\u201cBut Frank was.\u201d
\nMy heart slammed against my ribs.
\n\u201cFrank knew you then?\u201d
\nMargaret looked at me.
\n\u201cFrank was my best friend.\u201d
\nThe room went silent.
\n\u201cHe helped me hide during the pregnancy. When you were born, Rebecca and her husband agreed to raise you as their own.\u201d
\n\u201cRebecca\u2019s husband?\u201d
\nI frowned.
\n\u201cThe man I thought was my father died before I was old enough to remember him.\u201d
\nMargaret nodded.
\n\u201cAfter he died, Rebecca met Frank.\u201d
\nSomething suddenly clicked.
\nFrank hadn\u2019t simply married my mother.
\nHe had deliberately entered my life.
\nI stood.
\n\u201cNo.\u201d
\nMargaret\u2019s face tightened.
\n\u201cClaire\u2014\u201d
\n\u201cFrank married Rebecca because of me?\u201d
\nShe didn\u2019t answer.
\nThat silence told me everything.
\nI backed away.
\n\u201cHe watched me my entire childhood because you asked him to?\u201d
\n\u201cAt first.\u201d
\n\u201cAt first?\u201d
\nMargaret stood.
\n\u201cFrank promised me he\u2019d protect you.\u201d
\n\u201cSo my whole childhood was an assignment?\u201d
\n\u201cNo!\u201d
\n\u201cThen what was it?\u201d
\n\u201cHe loved you!\u201d
\nHer voice cracked.
\n\u201cHe loved you more than anyone I\u2019ve ever seen love another person.\u201d
\nI turned away, sobbing.
\nSuddenly every pancake, every birthday, every bedtime story felt contaminated by questions.
\nMargaret approached carefully.
\n\u201cFrank planned to tell you many times.\u201d
\n\u201cWhy didn\u2019t he?\u201d
\n\u201cBecause Rebecca made us promise.\u201d
\nI turned.
\n\u201cWhy?\u201d
\nMargaret hesitated.
\nThen she said something that made my skin turn cold.
\n\u201cBecause your biological father never believed you were really gone.\u201d
\n\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d
\n\u201cHe spent years looking for you.\u201d
\n\u201cBut he\u2019s dead.\u201d
\nMargaret\u2019s expression didn\u2019t change.
\n\u201cYes.\u201d
\n\u201cThen why keep the secret after he died?\u201d
\nShe walked back to the metal box.
\n\u201cBecause he wasn\u2019t the person Frank was most afraid of.\u201d
\nMy stomach tightened.
\nMargaret removed another photograph.
\nThis one was newer.
\nIt showed Frank standing outside his house.
\nThe picture appeared to have been taken from across the street without his knowledge.
\nOn the back, someone had written a date.
\nThree months ago.
\nBelow it were four words.
\nTELL HER OR I WILL.
\nMy hands went numb.
\n\u201cWho took this?\u201d
\n\u201cWe don\u2019t know.\u201d
\nMargaret whispered.
\n\u201cFrank started receiving photographs six months ago.\u201d
\n\u201cPhotographs of what?\u201d
\nShe opened the box completely.
\nMy blood turned cold.
\nThere were pictures of my house.
\nMy workplace.
\nMy daughter\u2019s school.
\nMy husband loading groceries into our car.
\nAnd one photograph of me asleep beside my bedroom window.
\nI dropped it.
\n\u201cOh my God.\u201d
\nMargaret grabbed my hands.
\n\u201cThat\u2019s why Frank finally decided to tell you.\u201d
\n\u201cWho is doing this?\u201d
\n\u201cWe thought we knew.\u201d
\n\u201cWho?\u201d
\nBefore she could answer, headlights swept across the living-room wall.
\nA vehicle had stopped outside.
\nMargaret\u2019s entire body stiffened.
\nShe rushed to the window, peeked through the curtain, and immediately stepped backward.
\n\u201cWhat?\u201d
\nShe didn\u2019t answer.
\n\u201cMargaret, what is it?\u201d
\nShe grabbed my arm.
\n\u201cYou need to leave through the back door.\u201d
\n\u201cWhy?\u201d
\n\u201cNow.\u201d
\nSomeone knocked on the front door.
\nThree slow knocks.
\nMargaret\u2019s face had gone completely white.
\n\u201cWho is that?\u201d
\nShe whispered something I barely heard.
\n\u201cThe person Frank spent thirty-seven years protecting you from.\u201d
\nMy heart hammered.
\n\u201cBut you said my biological father died twelve years ago.\u201d
\nMargaret looked at me with terror in her eyes.
\n\u201cI wasn\u2019t talking about your father.\u201d
\nThe knocking came again.
\nThen a man\u2019s voice drifted through the door.
\n\u201cMargaret, I know Claire is inside.\u201d
\nMy blood froze.
\nHe knew my name.
\nMargaret pushed me toward the kitchen.
\n\u201cGo!\u201d
\nBut before I could move, the front door handle slowly began turning.
\nAnd then the man outside said six words that made me stop breathing.
\n\u201cClaire, Frank didn\u2019t die naturally.\u201d\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026<\/p>\n
PART 2 \u2014 THE WOMAN BEHIND THE DOOR I screamed because the woman standing behind the door had my mother\u2019s face. Not similar. Not vaguely familiar. Her face. For several … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5444,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7778","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7778","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=7778"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7778\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7785,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7778\/revisions\/7785"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/5444"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=7778"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=7778"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=7778"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}