Chapter 13 - THE NAME ON THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE
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Nobody spoke for almost a minute.
Then Eleanor laughed.
It was not amusement.
It was shock escaping incorrectly.
“No.”
Father Anthony lowered his eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
Gabriel stepped toward her.
Eleanor moved back.
“Don’t.”
He stopped immediately.
That hurt more than if she had shouted.
Emma stared at Eleanor.
Rebecca covered her mouth.
Thomas Shaw arrived twenty minutes later.
Eleanor waited for him in the empty chapel behind Lucia House.
Not because she wanted privacy.
Because she did not trust herself to have this conversation anywhere with breakable furniture.
Thomas entered alone.
He looked older than he had that morning.
Eleanor stood.
“Tell me he’s wrong.”
Thomas stopped.
She knew.
Before he spoke.
She knew.
“No.”
One word.
Thirty-one years changed.
Eleanor gripped the back of a chair.
“Mom?”
“Loved you.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“Margaret knew.”
“You both knew.”
“Yes.”
“How old was I?”
“Four months.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Who gave me to you?”
“Lucia.”
“Why?”
Thomas sat slowly.
“We had lost a baby the year before.”
Eleanor’s eyes opened.
“What?”
“Stillbirth.”
She had never known.
Thomas continued.
“Margaret couldn’t have another child. We were friends with Father Anthony’s predecessor. He knew we wanted to adopt.”
“So he handed you a baby?”
“It wasn’t that simple.”
“It sounds exactly that simple.”
Thomas flinched.
Eleanor hated seeing it.
Did not stop.
“Did you buy me?”
“No!”
The answer came with such force that she believed him.
Thomas stood.
“We never paid one cent.”
“Did you know where I came from?”
“No.”
“At first?”
“No.”
“When did you find out?”
Thomas looked down.
“When you were six.”
Eleanor stared.
“The same year Lucia found Emma.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Your father found your birth certificate.”
“My father?”
Thomas went still.
Eleanor realized.
She had used the word without thinking.
Thomas heard it too.
His face broke.
But he answered.
“Salvatore.”
Gabriel was standing outside the chapel when she emerged.
He had not entered.
He had promised her space.
His ability to keep promises was becoming inconvenient.
Eleanor walked past him.
He followed at a distance.
She stopped at the garden.
“Am I related to you?”
Gabriel’s face changed.
“No.”
“You don’t know.”
“I had Marco check.”
She turned sharply.
“When?”
“The moment Father Anthony told us.”
Eleanor stared.
“I’m sorry.”
Gabriel continued carefully.
“Your preliminary records indicate your biological mother was not Lucia. Salvatore also wasn’t listed.”
“Listed?”
“On the hidden certificate.”
Eleanor went still.
“You already have it.”
“Father Anthony opened the archive.”
She looked toward the chapel.
“I don’t want to see it.”
“Okay.”
“I do.”
Gabriel nodded.
They returned together.
The certificate was handwritten.
No government seal.
A hospital record, not a legal birth certificate.
Female infant.
Birth name:
ELENA MARIE CARUSO.
Mother:
MARIA CARUSO.
Father:
UNKNOWN.
Eleanor touched the name.
“Elena.”
Gabriel stood beside her.
Thomas remained near the wall.
“Who was Maria Caruso?”
Father Anthony answered.
“A waitress.”
Of course.
Eleanor laughed bitterly.
Life enjoyed patterns.
“She worked at a restaurant owned by Salvatore.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
“Did my father—”
“No,” Father Anthony said quickly. “At least we have no evidence of that.”
Eleanor looked up.
“Then why hide me?”
The priest opened another envelope.
Lucia’s handwriting.
Gabriel recognized it immediately.
Maria Caruso witnessed a murder committed by Salvatore Moretti.
Eleanor stopped.
The letter continued.
Maria agreed to testify.
Before she could, she disappeared.
Her infant daughter became leverage.
Lucia discovered the child was being held at Saint Agnes under a false identity.
Not for adoption.
For control.
Gabriel read aloud:
“If Maria speaks, Salvatore will ensure the child vanishes. If she remains silent, he promises the girl will live.”
Eleanor’s hands began shaking.
“What happened to Maria?”
Nobody answered.
She looked at Gabriel.
“What happened to my mother?”
His silence told her.
“Dead?”
“We don’t know.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Give me the safer answer.”
Gabriel nodded slowly.
“Most likely dead.”
Eleanor looked away.
Thomas stepped toward her.
“You were ours from the day you came home.”
She turned.
“Was Nathan biological?”
“Yes.”
“So he’s not my brother.”
Thomas’s face collapsed.
“He changed your diapers.”
Eleanor’s eyes filled.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No.”
Thomas swallowed.
“Not by blood.”
She looked at the floor.
Thirty-one years.
Christmas mornings.
Hospital rooms.
Nathan teaching her to ride a bike.
Their mother brushing her hair.
Their father vanishing.
Every memory remained real.
But the labels had shifted.
Gabriel spoke softly.
“Blood isn’t the only way people become family.”
Eleanor laughed harshly.
“You would say that.”
“Yes.”
“Because your entire family is a disaster.”
“Also yes.”
She looked at him.
His honesty broke something in her.
Tears came.
Not graceful.
Not cinematic.
Eleanor covered her face and cried so hard she could not breathe.
Gabriel did not touch her.
Not until she reached for him.
Then he held her.
Thomas turned away.
Father Anthony quietly left.
Eleanor pressed her face into Gabriel’s chest.
“My mother knew.”
“Margaret?”
“Yes.”
“She loved you.”
“You don’t know that.”
Gabriel pulled back enough to look at her.
“I watched Thomas nearly die twice protecting you. I watched Nathan run into gunfire because Lily thought you were in danger. Families lie. They fail. They also love.”
“Your family is not a useful benchmark.”
“Fair.”
She laughed through tears.
He kissed her forehead.
That night, Eleanor called Nathan.
She planned to tell him carefully.
Nathan ruined that.
“You’re still my sister.”
She had barely finished explaining.
“Nathan—”
“No.”
“You’re doing the thing where you pretend there’s a debate.”
“I just found out.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“You changed my diapers.”
Nathan gagged.
“You could have chosen a better example.”
“You broke Tommy Mason’s nose when he called me fat in eighth grade.”
“He deserved it.”
“You skipped your college interview when Mom was hospitalized so I wouldn’t sit alone.”
Nathan went quiet.
Eleanor cried again.
He continued.
“You’re my sister.”
“Okay.”
“Say it.”
“You’re irritating.”
“Correct.”
“My brother is irritating.”
“Better.”
After the call, Eleanor found Gabriel standing on the balcony.
He handed her tea.
“No whiskey?”
“You throw things when angry.”
“I threw one lamp.”
“It was expensive.”
“You’re a millionaire.”
“Billionaire.”
She glared.
“Terrible timing.”
“I know.”
She leaned against him.
“You checked DNA.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Salvatore was not your biological father.”
Relief came faster than Eleanor expected.
Not because of Gabriel.
Because she wanted no piece of that man inside her.
“Maria Caruso?”
“Marco found a possible record.”
Eleanor straightened.
“Alive?”
“Maybe.”
“Where?”
“Wisconsin.”
Her heart stopped.
Gabriel continued.
“A woman named Marie Carson entered a protected domestic violence shelter three weeks after the Saint Agnes fire.”
“Carson.”
“Could be coincidence.”
“Age?”
“Matches.”
“Where is she now?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Eleanor looked at him.
“Find her.”
“I already started.”
She smiled despite everything.
“There’s the controlling criminal I married.”
“You married a businessman.”
“With armed employees.”
“Security-conscious businessman.”
She rested her head against his shoulder.
For five minutes, they said nothing.
Then Gabriel’s phone rang.
Marco.
He answered.
Listened.
His expression changed.
“What?”
Eleanor straightened.
Gabriel lowered the phone.
“Someone broke into the church archive.”
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
“That makes no sense.”
“They left something.”
Eleanor felt cold.
“What?”
“A photograph.”
They drove to St. Michael’s.
The photograph lay on the archive table.
Recent.
Taken through a long lens.
It showed an elderly woman leaving a grocery store.
Silver hair.
Red scarf.
On the back, one sentence:
MARIA CARUSO IS ALIVE.
May you like
Underneath:
AND SHE DOESN’T WANT ELEANOR TO FIND HER.
