I had grown up in another family.
At fifteen, I became pregnant.
After giving birth, I was taken to a private psychiatric hospital.
There, I was given powerful medications for months.
When I was finally released, my memories were confused and fragmented.
The couple who had taken me in—the people I had called Mom and Dad my entire life—arranged new identity documents.
They presented my twin daughters as their own children.
And me as their oldest daughter.
“But who was their father?” I asked again.
My aunt was sobbing.
“Your mother was more afraid of him than anyone else.”
She handed me another envelope.
Inside was a medical document.
Beneath the section identifying the father was a name.Get Parenting Tips
Robert Williams.
I knew that name.
It was the name of the man I had called my father my entire life.
Susan screamed.
Linda grabbed the edge of the table.
