I waited until Emma and Lucas returned home before searching for Ethan.
That decision was deliberate.
Whatever I found, I did not want my grandchildren watching me discover it.
Their visit ended on Sunday.
At the airport, Emma hugged me and whispered, "Don't become mysterious again."
"I'll try."
Lucas handed me a chocolate wrapper.
"A souvenir."
"This is trash."
"It's Swiss trash."
"Take it."
"No."
He escaped toward security laughing.
I watched them until they disappeared.
The apartment felt enormous afterward.
I cleaned unnecessarily.
Washed sheets.
Rearranged books.
Anything except open the laptop.
Finally, at four in the afternoon, I sat down.
Daniel had given me Caroline's surname.
Meyer.
Ethan Meyer.
Thirty-six.
Possibly born in Colorado.
Caroline later moved to Oregon.
Not much.
Enough.
I called Anel.
"Can you help me locate someone?"
"I assume this is Ethan."
"Daniel told you?"
"No. You have a tone."
"Everyone knows my tones."
"We've had decades of practice."
I gave him the details.
"Julieta, before I do anything, what do you want?"
"I want to know whether he exists."
"He does, presumably."
"You know what I mean."
"You want contact?"
"I don't know."
"DNA?"
The word frightened me.
"Eventually."
"Then let's locate him first."
Two days later, Anel called.
"I found an Ethan Meyer who fits."
My heart began pounding.
"Where?"
"Portland."
"Age?"
"Thirty-six."
"Occupation?"
"Architect."
I wrote everything down though I would remember it forever.
"Family?"
"Married. One child."
My throat tightened.
If he was my husband's son, there was another grandchild.
No.
I stopped myself.
Not yet.
"What else?"
"Nothing we should treat as relevant until identity is confirmed."
"Can we contact him?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"Carefully."
Anel suggested a letter.
Not from a lawyer.
From me.
Short.
Nonaccusatory.
No dramatic declarations.
I spent six hours writing six paragraphs.
Dear Ethan,
My name is Julieta Johnson. I am contacting you because I recently learned that many years ago your mother, Caroline Meyer, knew my late husband.
I stopped.
Too vague.
Too ominous.
I tried again.
I eventually wrote the truth without claiming what I did not know.
I explained that my husband and Caroline had a relationship during the period before Ethan's birth.
I said I had only recently learned this.
I said I understood there might once have been questions regarding his paternity.
I offered contact if he wanted it.
No demand.
No test request.
No emotional burden.
At the end:
If this message brings up something you would rather leave in the past, I will respect that completely.
I sent it.
Then I waited.
Waiting.
Apparently the central curriculum of my seventies.
One day.
Two.
Five.
Nothing.
I told myself that was an answer.
Then, on the eighth day, an email arrived.
Subject: Re: Caroline Meyer.
I stared at it for ten minutes.
Finally I opened it.
Mrs. Johnson,
I wondered if someone from your family would ever contact me.
My heart stopped.
I continued.
My mother told me about your husband when I was eighteen. She said there was a possibility he was my biological father but that she had never confirmed it.
I covered my mouth.
Ethan knew.
For eighteen years.
He wrote that Caroline had died nine years earlier.
Before her death, she gave him copies of correspondence between herself and my husband.
Some letters were romantic.
Others came later.
My stomach twisted at the thought.
He had pieces of my husband I had never seen.
Ethan continued:
I contacted your husband once when I was twenty-one.
I stood so quickly the chair nearly fell.
My husband had known.
Not merely possibility.
Contact.
I read on.
They had spoken by phone.
Then met once.
Once.
My husband met Ethan.
He never told me.
I felt betrayed all over again.
Ethan wrote that the meeting was brief and uncomfortable.
My husband told him he did not know whether he was Ethan's biological father.
He offered to pay for DNA testing.
Ethan declined.
Why?
I read faster.
At twenty-one, Ethan had recently become engaged.
He had grown up with a man he considered his father.
He did not want biology to destabilize either family.
My husband's family.
His own.
Everyone protecting everyone again.
Ethan wrote:
Your husband respected my decision. He asked me to contact him if I ever changed my mind. I did not.
Then came the line that broke my anger open.
He spoke about you with great affection and obvious shame.
I stopped.
My husband had not forgotten.
He had carried it.
Not enough to tell me.
But enough to feel shame.
Ethan continued.
After my husband's death, Daniel contacted him.
Of course.
Daniel had offered the same option.
Ethan again declined.
Then:
I am not sure why you are contacting me now. If you are seeking certainty, I would be willing to do a DNA test if your daughter is comfortable participating.
Rebecca.
Biologically, her DNA could establish whether Ethan was her half brother.
I closed the laptop.
Too much.
I walked outside.
The cold air helped.
I followed the lake for nearly an hour.
Then I called Rebecca.
"Do you have time?"
"Yes."
"I found Ethan."
Silence.
"You did?"
"He knows about your father."
"What does that mean?"
"They met."
Rebecca gasped.
"Dad met him?"
"Once."
"When?"
"When Ethan was twenty-one."
"So Dad knew?"
"He knew there was a possibility."
"Did they test?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Ethan didn't want to."
Rebecca became quiet.
Then she asked, "What does he want now?"
"Nothing."
That surprised her.
"Nothing?"
"He said he'd agree to testing if we want certainty."
"We?"
"You."
Another silence.
"Me?"
"Your DNA could establish whether you're biologically related."
Rebecca inhaled.
"Wow."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
"I mean that."
"I know."
"This isn't something you owe me."
"I understand."
She became quiet.
Then she asked, "Do you want to know?"
I looked at the water.
"Yes."
The answer came easier than expected.
"I spent too many years having other people decide which truths I could handle."
Rebecca absorbed that.
"Then I'll do it."
"You don't have to decide now."
"I already did."
"Rebecca."
"Mom."
I smiled despite myself.
"I want to know too."
That was different.
Her choice.
Not mine.
"Okay."
Anel arranged the process through an accredited laboratory.
No commercial ancestry website.
No unnecessary sharing.
Rebecca submitted her sample in America.
Ethan submitted his in Oregon.
Then we waited.
Again.
During those weeks, Ethan and I exchanged cautious emails.
We avoided pretending to be family.
He told me about Caroline.
She had been a graphic designer.
Loved jazz.
Hated flying.
He sent one photograph of her.
I stared at it.
She was beautiful.
Not dramatically.
Warmly.
Dark hair.
Wide smile.
For one terrible minute, jealousy traveled backward through thirty-six years and found me.
Then I reminded myself Caroline was dead.
Whatever anger I carried belonged primarily to my husband.
Not a woman who could no longer answer.
I asked Ethan what kind of man had raised him.
His reply was immediate.
A good one.
That comforted me.
He wrote that his father, Michael, had known there was uncertainty about his biology and had never treated him differently.
Michael was still alive.
They remained close.
That complicated my emotions further.
If Ethan was my husband's son, biology would not erase the father who had actually raised him.
I understood that better than I might have months earlier.
Relationships were not bank accounts.
One did not automatically replace another.
Then Ethan sent a second photograph.
Not Caroline.
Himself.
It was recent.
He stood beside a drafting table wearing glasses and a blue shirt.
I stared at his face.
Nothing obvious.
Maybe the chin.
Maybe the eyes.
Or maybe I was searching too hard.
I saved the photograph.
That evening, Rebecca called.
"Did Ethan send you a picture?"
"Yes."
"He sent me one too."
I sat upright.
"You've been communicating?"
"Just today."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Rebecca went quiet.
My old tone had returned.
Interrogation.
Control.
I corrected myself.
"Sorry. That's your relationship to manage."
"Thank you."
Another small repair.
Then she said, "Mom, I recognize him."
My stomach tightened.
"From where?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean?"
"I've seen his face."
"Online?"
"No."
"At Dad's funeral?"
"I don't think so."
My pulse quickened.
"Think."
"I am."
Rebecca became quiet.
Then she gasped.
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"The photograph box."
"What photograph box?"
"The one with Dad's camera."
My heart started pounding.
"What about it?"
"There are old pictures inside."
"Of Ethan?"
"I don't know."
"You said you recognize him."
"Because there's a picture of a younger man who looks exactly like him."
I stood.
"Who is with him?"
Rebecca did not answer.
"Rebecca."
Her voice returned faintly.
"Dad."
I gripped the table.
"You said they met once."
"Maybe this is that meeting."
"Where was the photograph taken?"
"I don't remember."
"Find it."
She was already moving.
I heard drawers.
Boxes.
Paper.
Then silence.
"Rebecca?"
"I found it."
"Send it."
My phone vibrated.
The photograph appeared.
My husband stood beside a much younger Ethan.
Both looked uncomfortable.
Behind them was a familiar building.
I enlarged the image.
My breath stopped.
It was not Oregon.
Not Colorado.
Not somewhere distant.
They were standing outside the hospital where I had worked.
The date printed at the bottom of the photograph was twelve years earlier.
Not fifteen.
Not the year Ethan said they met.
Three years later.
My husband had seen him again.
I called Ethan immediately.
He answered.
"Julieta?"
"I have a photograph."
Silence.
"My husband and you outside my hospital."
Longer silence.
"Ethan."
"I'm sorry."
My chest tightened.
"You said you met once."
"I did."
"Then what is this?"
He exhaled.
"I didn't want to tell you before the DNA results."
"Why?"
"Because the second meeting wasn't about me."
I closed my eyes.
"What was it about?"
"Your husband called me."
"And?"
"He wanted a favor."
"What favor?"
Ethan hesitated.
"He wanted me to meet Rebecca."
My eyes opened.
"What?"
"He said she deserved to know there was a possibility she had a brother."
I looked at the photograph Rebecca had just sent.
My daughter had claimed she did not know who Ethan was.
Yet my husband had apparently tried to arrange a meeting.
"Did they meet?"
"No."
"Why?"
"She never came."
I swallowed.
"Did Rebecca know?"
"I don't know."
"What happened?"
"Your husband waited with me for almost two hours."
I stared at the picture.
"Where was Rebecca?"
"He said she changed her mind."
My skin went cold.
That did not sound right.
Rebecca had just told me she barely knew Ethan's name.
"Who took the photograph?"
"A nurse your husband knew."
"Why?"
"He said he wanted proof he'd tried."
Proof.
My husband had expected something to be disputed later.
"What exactly did he say?"
Ethan became quiet.
Then:
"He said, 'Someday Julieta may need to know I tried to make this right.'"
My knees weakened.
The photograph was not a memory.
It was evidence.
I called Rebecca back.
She answered immediately.
"Mom?"
"Did your father ever ask you to meet Ethan?"
"No."
"Think carefully."
"I am."
"He arranged a meeting twelve years ago."
"What?"
"At my hospital."
Rebecca sounded genuinely shocked.
"He told Ethan you changed your mind."
"I didn't know about it."
I stared at the photograph.
Someone was lying.
My husband was dead.
Rebecca sounded bewildered.
Ethan had no obvious reason to invent a failed meeting.
Then I noticed something in the photograph.
My husband's left hand.
He was holding an envelope.
The front was partially visible.
One word could be read.
Rebecca.
I enlarged it.
My daughter inhaled when I sent the close-up.
"What is that?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"I've never seen it."
"Your name is on it."
"I can see that."
The laboratory results were due the next morning.
Suddenly the DNA test was no longer the only answer I needed.
Somewhere between my husband's attempt to reveal the truth and Rebecca's claim that she never knew, an envelope had disappeared.
And after everything we had already uncovered, I had learned never to assume a missing letter was merely lost.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: The DNA Results Answered One Question, but the Missing Envelope Forced Rebecca and Me to Reexamine Twelve Years of Silence
I Brought My Daughter Her Favorite Birthday Cake, and She Gave Me One Sentence I Could Never Unhear
Part 16 of 35
