Chapter 7 - THE MAN THEY HID OUTSIDE MILWAUKEE
My father might have been alive long after I was born.
And nobody had told me.
The possibility made me furious.
Not hopeful.
Not at first.
Furious.
Because if Dad had survived, then someone had allowed me to grow up believing I wasn't wanted.
Someone had watched Grandma struggle.
Watched Mom cry.
Watched me work double shifts.
And kept the truth hidden.
I sat across from Rebecca as she explained the records.
"We need to verify the facility and patient identity."
I nodded.
"I know."
"Emma, there may be incomplete information."
"I know."
But knowing didn't make the waiting easier.
The facility named in the ledger had closed eight years earlier.
Its records had been transferred to a larger healthcare network.
Some documents were missing.
Others contained altered names.
Then investigators found a patient admission form.
The patient was listed as David Carson.
His date of birth matched my father's.
His listed injuries included a serious head injury and prolonged memory difficulties.
I stared at the form.
"Is that Dad?"
Rebecca answered carefully.
"We need more evidence."
Then the investigator obtained an archived photograph.
A man sat beside a window wearing a hospital gown.
He looked thin.
Tired.
But unmistakable.
My father's eyes.
My father's nose.
The same crooked smile from the photographs Grandma kept.
My hands began shaking.
"Dad."
I hadn't spoken that word in years without feeling angry.
Now it came out like a prayer.
Adrien stood beside the window.
He looked devastated.
"Emma."
I turned.
"What?"
"I'm sorry."
I shook my head.
"You didn't know."
"No."
"But your family did."
He lowered his eyes.
"Yes."
I looked toward the photograph.
For a moment, I wanted to hate him.
It would have been easier.
Hate was simple.
The truth was complicated.
Adrien had been a hungry fifteen-year-old when Grandma helped him.
His father had controlled the criminal businesses.
His mother had tried to expose them.
And now Adrien was confronting the consequences of a world he'd inherited.
That didn't erase his responsibility for his own choices.
But it mattered.
Later that afternoon, investigators traced David Carson's discharge records.
He'd been transferred to a supported-living facility in Wisconsin.
Then moved again.
The last known address belonged to a quiet residential care home near Madison.
I stared.
"Is he still there?"
Rebecca nodded slowly.
"The director says a resident matching his information is currently receiving care."
My knees weakened.
I gripped the chair.
"Alive?"
She swallowed.
"Yes."
I began crying.
For twenty-seven years, I'd believed Dad abandoned me.
Now he was alive.
Somewhere in Wisconsin.
And possibly unaware that his daughter had spent her whole life searching for him.
Then Rebecca added something unexpected.
"The director says he talks about a little girl named Emma."
My heart stopped.
"He remembers me?"
She nodded.
"Apparently."
I covered my mouth.
But the final detail hurt even more.
"Emma, the director says your father keeps a photograph beside his bed."
I could barely breathe.
"What photograph?"
Rebecca's voice softened.
"A baby wrapped in a yellow blanket."
I started sobbing.
May you like
Because Grandma had told me Dad painted my nursery yellow.
And now I knew he'd carried that color with him for twenty-seven years.
