But the process became complicated.
Records were misplaced.
An attorney handling the adoption retired unexpectedly.
And several documents were filed under the wrong case number.
Eventually, Caroline received paperwork that appeared to establish her as my legal mother.
She believed the adoption had been completed.
For eleven years, nobody questioned it.
Then Patricia transferred back to the county.
During a routine review, she discovered that my adoption file was incomplete.
The final court order was missing.
Worse, Rebecca’s father had contacted the county shortly after her death, asking about his grandson.
He’d been told the baby had already been legally adopted.
That wasn’t true.
He had spent years trying to find me.
His name was Thomas Sloan.
And he was still alive.
⸻
I sat staring at the letter.
“You’re telling me my grandfather spent years looking for me?”
Martin nodded.
“Yes.”
“And my mother knew?”
“Not at first.”
“But Patricia told her.”
“Eventually.”
I remembered the argument in our hallway.
You promised me nobody would ever find out.
I could almost hear my mother’s voice.
Martin continued.
“When Patricia discovered the missing order, she told Caroline they needed to contact an attorney and correct the records.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“Caroline was terrified.”
“Of losing me?”
“Yes.”
I leaned back.
For the first time, I understood the fear I’d heard in my mother’s voice that summer.
She wasn’t worried about losing our house.
She was worried about losing her son.
Martin handed me another document.
It was a letter from Patricia to Eleanor, dated six months after the argument I’d overheard.
Caroline has agreed to cooperate with the attorney. I believe we can correct the adoption without separating Nathaniel from the only mother he’s ever known.
But Thomas Sloan deserves to know his grandson is alive.
