PART 2 — The Family Member Who Stole Fifty-Five Years From Us
Arthur looked at me for a long moment.
Then he finally said the name.
“Your sister, Margaret.”
I stopped breathing.
“Margaret?”
He nodded.
“My sister?”
“She was the one who answered the door when I came back.”
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“I wish it were.”
Arthur reached for my hand.
“I came home in 1974.”
I felt dizzy.
“1974?”
He nodded.
“I had spent years trying to survive. When I finally made it home, the first thing I wanted was to find you.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“I went to your parents’ house.”
“And Margaret answered?”
“Yes.”
“What did she tell you?”
Arthur looked away.
“She told me you had moved.”
I shook my head.
“I never moved.”
“I know that now.”
He continued.
“She told me you had married someone else.”
My mouth fell open.
“I never married anyone.”
Arthur’s eyes filled with regret.
“I didn’t know that.”
“What else did she say?”
“She told me you had asked her never to contact me again.”
I stared at him.
“I would never have said that.”
“I know.”
He squeezed my hand.
“I know now.”
I stood and walked toward the window.
For fifty-five years, I had believed Arthur had disappeared because life had taken him somewhere I couldn’t reach.
But he had been standing outside my door.
He had been looking for me.
And my own sister had sent him away.
“Why would she do that?”
Arthur was silent.
Then he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
He pulled out a small envelope.
“I kept this for fifty-two years.”
He handed it to me.
The paper was yellowed.
The handwriting made my heart stop.
It was mine.
I opened it carefully.
It was the last letter I had written to Arthur before he left for Vietnam.
I remembered every word.
But there was something I didn’t remember.
At the bottom of the page, someone had written a sentence in different handwriting.
She doesn’t want you anymore. Don’t come back.
I stared at it.
“That isn’t my handwriting.”
“No.”
“Who added this?”
Arthur looked at me.
“Margaret.”
I sat down.
Then another memory surfaced.
A week after Arthur was declared missing, Margaret had come to my house.
She had hugged me.
She had told me to let him go.
She had said I was young.
She had told me there would be other men.
I had trusted her.
All those years, I thought she had been helping me survive.
She had been helping herself.
“Why?”
Arthur looked down.
“Because she was in love with me.”
I couldn’t speak.
“My sister loved you?”
He nodded.
“She told me after you were gone.”
I felt sick.
“Then why didn’t she tell me?”
“She was afraid you’d hate her.”
I laughed bitterly.
“She stole my entire life.”
Arthur lowered his eyes.
“There is more.”
I looked at him.
“What more could there possibly be?”
He reached into another pocket.
This time, he pulled out an old photograph.
It showed Margaret standing beside a little boy.
I recognized the child immediately.
My nephew.
Arthur turned the photograph over.
There was a date written on the back.
One year after he had returned home.
Then he said something that made my entire body go cold.
“That boy is my son.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“What?”
Arthur nodded.
“Margaret told me the child was mine.”
I stared at the photograph.
“My sister had a child with you?”
“No.”
His voice broke.
“She wasn’t pregnant when I came back.”
“Then how?”
Arthur looked directly into my eyes.
“She lied.”
I felt the room spinning.
“She told everyone I was the father.”
“Why?”
“Because she wanted me to stay.”
“And you believed her?”
“For years.”
I closed my eyes.
Then I remembered something.
Margaret had always refused to let me meet that child alone.
She had always insisted on being present.
She had always changed the subject whenever I asked about his father.
I had assumed she was protecting him.
Now I understood.
Arthur reached for my hand again.
“I eventually discovered the truth.”
“What truth?”
“The boy wasn’t mine.”
I stared at him.
“Then whose child was he?”
Arthur looked toward the attic.
Toward the old prom dress.
Then he whispered:
“Evelyn… he was yours.”
I froze.
“What?”
Arthur’s eyes filled with tears.
“You were pregnant when I left.”
I couldn’t move.
“I didn’t know.”
“Neither did I.”
He took a shaky breath.
“Your sister knew.”
My heart shattered.
“She knew I was pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“And she never told me?”
Arthur shook his head.
“She told me the baby had died.”
I covered my mouth.
For fifty-five years, I had believed I had simply lost Arthur.
But now I was discovering something far more painful.
I hadn’t only lost the love of my life.
I had lost a child.
And my sister had known the entire time.
Then Arthur reached into his pocket one final time.
He pulled out a recent photograph.
“This is why I came back.”
I stared at the picture.
It showed an elderly man standing outside a house.
He looked remarkably like Arthur.
But the name written on the back made my hands tremble.
Your son.
Arthur whispered:
“I found him three months ago.”
I looked up.
“Where is he?”
Arthur’s expression changed.
“He’s been looking for you too.”
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