“Or not.”
I nodded.
Then she asked:
“Will you come?”
My first instinct was:
Rebecca should.
I stopped.
“Why me?”
“Because you're my mom.”
That simple.
So I went.
Rebecca chose not to.
She wrote Owen a letter authorizing Emily to ask questions about biological history and stating clearly that Rebecca wanted no contact.
We met him in a public conference room arranged through an attorney.
No surprises.
No home visit.
No emotional ambush.
Owen entered.
Looked at Emily.
Went pale.
“Rebecca.”
Emily stiffened.
“No.”
He blinked.
“My name is Emily.”
He sat.
Tears appeared.
I did not care.
Emily asked:
“Did you know my biological mother was pregnant?”
“No.”
“Do you believe her account of what happened when she was sixteen?”
His attorney shifted.
Owen looked down.
“I was controlling.”
Rebecca had taught Emily the word she preferred.
No euphemisms.
No graphic details.
Enough.
“I told myself she was mature.”
