Chapter 43 - The Woman Who Looked Like My Mother
Elizabeth Mercer arrived ten minutes before our scheduled meeting.
I knew because Eleanor called me from the reception area.
“She's here.”
My hands went cold.
“Does she seem comfortable?”
“She's with independent counsel. She understands the meeting conditions.”
I looked at Maya.
For once, I wished she would simply tell me everything would be fine.
Instead, she gave me the familiar look she used before difficult depositions.
“Breathe. Listen. Don't turn a conversation into a cross-examination.”
I almost smiled.
“That's going to be difficult.”
“I know.”
The meeting took place in a private conference room at Eleanor's office.
No cameras.
No reporters.
No Hale family members.
Helena's involvement had been disclosed, but Elizabeth had chosen separate counsel for the meeting.
That gave me some comfort.
When the door opened, I stood.
A woman entered wearing a simple dark green sweater and black trousers.
Her dark hair reached her shoulders.
She was smaller than I expected.
Her face was narrow.
Her eyes were brown.
And when she looked up, I saw something that made my chest ache.
My mother's expression.
Not an identical face.
Not some impossible mirror image.
Just the same guarded way of studying a room before deciding whether it was safe.
“Amelia?”
Her voice trembled slightly.
“Yes.”
She stopped near the doorway.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then she said, “You don't look like the photographs.”
I swallowed.
“What photographs?”
“The ones your husband sent.”
My stomach tightened.
“Preston?”
She nodded.
“He told me you were wealthy, arrogant, and furious that another beneficiary had been discovered.”
I almost laughed.
“That sounds like him.”
Elizabeth's expression didn't change.
“I believed him.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
Her voice sharpened.
“I spent years trying to find my mother. Then I learned she had another daughter. A daughter she raised.”
I felt the words like a physical blow.
Elizabeth continued.
“I wrote to you. I called offices where people said you worked. I sent letters through attorneys.”
“I never received them.”
“That's what you're saying.”
“Yes.”
She folded her arms.
“I got a reply.”
“The letter you showed me.”
“Yes.”
I met her eyes.
“I didn't write it.”
She looked away.
I wanted to reach for her.
But I didn't.
She had spent years learning not to expect anything from me.
I wasn't going to demand trust simply because we might share blood.
“Would you agree to independent relationship testing?” I asked.
Elizabeth looked startled.
“You think I'm lying?”
“No.”
I took a breath.
“I think people have forged documents in my name. I think Helena has financial interests in the same trust you're claiming. And I think both of us deserve proof nobody can use against us later.”
She studied me.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
The tension in my chest eased slightly.
Her attorney suggested using an accredited laboratory with independently collected samples and documented handling.
We agreed.
Then Elizabeth opened a worn leather handbag.
Inside was a small photograph.
She placed it on the table.
A younger version of my mother stood beside a woman holding a baby.
Margaret was smiling.
But her eyes looked wet.
“That's the only photograph I had of her,” Elizabeth whispered.
I leaned closer.
I recognized the blue coat.
The same one Mother wore in the photograph beside Vivian Hale.
“Who is holding the baby?”
“My adoptive mother.”
I studied the image.
Elizabeth continued.
“She told me Margaret loved me. But she never explained why she couldn't keep me.”
My throat tightened.
“Did she tell you anything about our grandfather?”
“Only that he owned ships.”
I smiled faintly.
“He owned more paperwork than ships.”
For the first time, Elizabeth almost smiled.
Then her expression hardened again.
“Helena says you're trying to take forty-eight million dollars.”
I shook my head.
“The reserve contains assets and obligations. We don't know what amount, if any, either of us may ultimately receive.”
She looked surprised.
“That's not what Helena told me.”
“What did she say?”
“That you already claimed the money.”
I reached into my folder.
Then stopped.
“Would you like your attorney to review the administrator's preservation notice?”
Elizabeth glanced toward counsel.
A few minutes later, she was reading the document herself.
Her expression changed.
“The money hasn't been distributed.”
“No.”
“And you're asking for an accounting.”
“Yes.”
“Of everything?”
“Everything.”
She looked down at the document.
For a long time, she didn't speak.
Then she whispered, “She told me you wanted to erase my name.”
I felt a cold anger rise.
“Elizabeth, I didn't know your name until yesterday.”
Tears filled her eyes.
She quickly wiped them away.
“I don't know what to believe.”
I nodded.
“You don't have to decide today.”
The meeting continued for another hour.
We compared dates.
Addresses.
Small memories of Margaret.
Nothing that could replace the years we'd lost.
As Elizabeth prepared to leave, she stopped beside the door.
“Amelia?”
I looked up.
“Did she sing to you?”
The question caught me off guard.
“What?”
“When you were little.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
Elizabeth swallowed.
“What song?”
I thought of my mother sitting beside my bed during thunderstorms.
Then I whispered the opening words of an old sailor's lullaby.
Elizabeth began crying.
“My adoptive mother said Margaret sang that to me before she left.”
Neither of us moved.
Then she stepped forward.
Not quite embracing me.
But close enough that I could see how hard she was trying.
And for the first time, I understood that someone had stolen more from us than money.
May you like
They had stolen the ordinary memories sisters were supposed to share.
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