The children's home looked nothing like the bleak institution my imagination had constructed during the drive. It occupied a renovated brick building behind a row of maple trees, with painted flower boxes beneath the windows and chalk drawings covering part of the front walkway.
I parked across from a basketball hoop.
For several minutes, I stayed in the car.
A child somewhere behind the building shrieked with laughter.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
I thought of Emma.
Then I reminded myself why I was there.
Not to find her.
Not to replace her.
To understand why Lily's face had disturbed something so deeply in me—and why my husband seemed determined to stop me from asking.
Inside, a receptionist checked my name and called someone.
A woman in her late fifties arrived a few minutes later. She wore a navy cardigan and reading glasses on a thin chain.
"Claire Bennett?"
"Yes."
"I'm Margaret Jameson. I direct the home."
Her handshake was warm.
"Rebecca told me you've expressed interest in Lily."
"I have."
"We'll talk first. If everything feels appropriate, we can discuss meeting her."
She led me down a hallway covered with framed paintings made by children.
One showed a purple dog larger than a house.
Another was labeled MY FAMILY, though the figures beneath the title had no faces.
Miss Jameson's office overlooked the yard.
She invited me to sit.
"Before anything else," she said, "I want to emphasize that Lily isn't a photograph or a profile. She's a complicated little person with her own history."
"I know."
"I'm glad."
I hesitated.
"There's something else I need to explain."
Her expression became attentive.
I took out my phone.
"I didn't choose her profile only because I thought she seemed like a child we could love."
Miss Jameson waited.
"My daughter died ten years ago."
"I'm sorry."
"She was six."
Something softened in the director's face.
I opened a photograph of Emma.
"This is her."
Miss Jameson looked.
At first her expression showed polite sympathy.
Then it changed.
The shift was subtle but unmistakable.
Her lips parted.
Her gaze moved from Emma's photograph to me.
"Where did you say your daughter lived?"
The question surprised me.
"With us. Here in the area. Why?"
"May I see that again?"
I handed her the phone.
She enlarged the image.
Her complexion seemed to drain.
My heartbeat quickened.
"You recognize her?"
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
"Miss Jameson."
She returned the phone.
"I don't recognize your daughter personally."
"That's not what I asked."
Her eyes held mine.
Years of motherhood had taught me the difference between someone thinking and someone deciding how much truth to reveal.
Miss Jameson was doing the second.
I leaned forward.
"Lily looks almost exactly like her."
"I can see that."
"Do you know why?"
She removed her glasses.
"I need to be careful."
"Why?"
"Because there are privacy laws involved."
"Privacy laws about what?"
She folded the glasses slowly.
The office suddenly felt warmer.
Outside, a whistle blew and children shouted.
I waited.
Finally she said, "Lily's history contains information I cannot release simply because you've expressed interest in adoption."
"I understand."
"However, the resemblance you've shown me intersects with something else."
"What?"
Miss Jameson glanced toward the closed door.
"There has been an issue involving an outside organization we have worked with."
"What organization?"
She looked uncomfortable.
"A fertility clinic and donor facility."
For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood.
"What does a fertility clinic have to do with a children's home?"
"Sometimes couples who explore adoption ultimately decide they would prefer assisted reproduction. Over the years, we referred some people to a local facility. Likewise, when circumstances surrounding children conceived through that facility became unstable, social-service cases occasionally crossed our path."
"You're being very vague."
"Deliberately."
"Why?"
"Because there is an investigation."
That word changed the air in the room.
I sat straighter.
"What kind of investigation?"
Miss Jameson pressed her fingertips together.
"I shouldn't characterize allegations that have not been fully resolved."
"Does Lily have something to do with it?"
She did not answer.
That was answer enough.
My mouth went dry.
"Is she in danger?"
"No."
"Was she abused?"
"Not in the way you're thinking."
"Then tell me what I should be thinking."
Miss Jameson looked genuinely troubled.
"I wish I could."
I reached for my phone again and placed Emma's photograph on the desk.
"My daughter died in a car accident ten years ago. Yesterday I found a child who could almost be her twin. My husband saw this picture and demanded that I cancel this meeting. Now you're telling me Lily's history somehow intersects with an investigation at a donor facility."
Miss Jameson's attention sharpened.
"Your husband told you not to come?"
"Yes."
"What is his name?"
I hesitated.
"Mark Bennett."
For the first time, her composure cracked.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
"Do you know him?"
"No."
Again, too fast.
I stood.
"Please stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Answering before you've decided whether the answer is true."
Miss Jameson looked toward the window.
I could hear my pulse in my ears.
When she finally spoke, her voice was lower.
"I don't personally know your husband."
"But?"
"I have heard information that makes your situation more complicated than I initially understood."
"Tell me."
"I can't yet."
"Why not?"
"Because I need to speak to someone first."
I laughed once, without humor.
"Someone investigating the clinic?"
"Someone who used to work closely with it."
"Police?"
"No."
"A doctor?"
She shook her head.
"Then who?"
"A person who has access to information I don't."
I thought of turning around and leaving.
Instead I sat again.
"When can I speak to him?"
Miss Jameson checked her calendar.
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow?"
"It's the earliest I can arrange."
I pressed my palm against the edge of the desk.
"What am I supposed to do until tomorrow?"
She regarded me with unexpected kindness.
"Try not to reach conclusions before you have facts."
"That's difficult when everyone around me seems to have facts they're refusing to share."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Her expression tightened.
"More than you realize."
I looked at Emma's photograph again.
"Can I meet Lily today?"
Miss Jameson hesitated.
"Not after this conversation."
"Why?"
"Because whatever is happening here, I don't want you walking into a meeting with that child while you're wondering whether she's somehow connected to your daughter."
The answer hurt because it was reasonable.
I put away my phone.
"Will you at least tell me one thing?"
"If I can."
"Does Lily's resemblance to Emma surprise you?"
Miss Jameson went very still.
Then she said, "No."
One word.
That was all.
But it followed me all the way to my car.
I drove home slowly, barely noticing traffic.
A fertility facility.
An investigation.
A former insider.
Mark's reaction.
Lily.
Emma.
The pieces refused to form a picture, yet I could feel their edges beginning to touch.
Mark came home shortly after seven.
I had been sitting at the dining table waiting for him.
He saw my face and stopped.
"You went."
It was not a question.
"Yes."
He dropped his keys onto the counter.
"I asked you not to."
"You demanded that I cancel. That's different."
"What happened?"
I watched him carefully.
"The director recognized something."
His expression barely moved.
"What does that mean?"
"She saw Emma's photograph."
"And?"
"She told me Lily's background is tied to a fertility clinic."
Mark's face changed so subtly I might have missed it if I weren't looking for exactly that.
His throat moved.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"There's an investigation."
He turned away.
"Claire, stop."
"Why?"
"Because this is getting ridiculous."
"The director didn't think so."
"You're letting strangers fill your head with nonsense."
"She didn't tell me enough to fill my head with anything."
"Good. Leave it there."
"I have another meeting tomorrow."
He spun around.
"No."
The force of the word startled both of us.
"Someone who worked with the clinic is meeting me."
"You are not going."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
I stared at him.
Ten years of distance had made us strangers in many ways, but Mark had never spoken to me like that.
"You don't get to decide where I go."
He rubbed both hands over his face.
"I'm trying to protect you."
"From what?"
He did not answer.
"Mark."
"From getting obsessed with a coincidence."
"The director said it wasn't surprising."
He froze.
I stood.
"Why does that frighten you?"
"It doesn't."
"Then come with me tomorrow."
"No."
"Why?"
"I'm working."
"Cancel."
"I can't."
"You demanded that I cancel something important to me. Surely you can move one afternoon meeting."
His jaw hardened.
"I said no."
I stepped closer.
"What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing."
I held his gaze.
He looked away first.
That was when fear arrived.
Not grief.
Not curiosity.
Fear.
Mark grabbed his car keys again.
"Where are you going?"
"Out."
"We're talking."
"I can't do this right now."
"You mean you won't."
He opened the door.
"Mark."
He paused.
I wanted to ask him something precise, something that would force an honest answer.
Instead, all I managed was, "Do you know why that girl looks like Emma?"
His back remained toward me.
Several seconds passed.
"No."
Then he left.
I listened to his car disappear down the street.
He did not return to our bedroom that night.
Sometime after midnight, I heard the guest-room door close.
I lay awake until nearly dawn, staring into the darkness.
At one point I remembered a sentence Miss Jameson had used.
Information that makes your situation more complicated.
Not Lily's situation.
Mine.
At 6:40, I heard the shower turn on.
At seven, Mark left without speaking.
I waited until his car was gone.
Then I opened the desk drawer where we kept old documents and found the folder containing Emma's birth certificate, hospital records, and school papers.
I did not know what I expected to discover.
Nothing seemed unusual.
I closed the folder.
Yet when I saw Emma's six-year-old school photograph clipped inside the front cover, one detail that had always felt ordinary suddenly seemed important.
Red hair.
Freckles.
Blue eyes.
Exactly like Mark.
Exactly like Lily.
And tomorrow afternoon, someone was finally going to tell me why that resemblance did not surprise Miss Jameson.
Click here to continue reading: PART 4: The Man Waiting Beside Miss Jameson Knew About Children Who Should Never Have Resembled One Another, and Emma Fit the Pattern
Ten Years After One Ordinary Drive Destroyed Our Family, I Finally Asked Mark Whether We Were Allowed to Want a Future
Part 3 of 15
