Maya covered her mouth.
“David,” Daniel said, “there is one more thing.”
I gripped the phone.
“The change-of-beneficiary form included a handwritten note requesting that the insurer contact Marisol regarding a child.”
I looked at Maya.
Her face had gone pale again.
“What child?” I asked.
Daniel took a breath.
“The note did not give a name. It only said, ‘our daughter.’”
The room became completely still.
Maya stared at me, her hand trembling over the blanket.
“My father died when I was twelve,” I whispered.
“I know,” she said.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-one.”
I was thirty-six.
Five years apart.
Old memories began surfacing in broken pieces—my father leaving on unexplained trips, my mother burning letters in the fireplace after his funeral, the way she had reacted the first time I brought Maya home.
She had dropped a glass.
At the time, she said it slipped.
Now I remembered how she stared at Maya’s face.
Not with dislike.
With recognition.
My phone rang.
An unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then Maya looked at the screen and whispered, “That’s a Philippine country code.”
I answered.
For a moment, there was only static.
Then a woman spoke my name.
“David Bennett?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was faint and heavily accented, but the words were clear.
“My name is Marisol Santos.”
Maya closed her eyes.
The woman continued.
“I have been trying to reach your wife, but someone has been answering her messages for her.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. But I did not ask Maya for money.”
Maya’s eyes flew open.
“What?”
“I sent warnings,” Marisol said. “Not requests.”
“What warnings?”
There was a pause on the line.
Then she said, “About Eleanor.”
My mother’s name, spoken by a woman on the other side of the world.
I stood slowly.
“What does my mother have to do with you?”
Marisol’s voice broke.
“She knows why your father died.”
The call disconnected.
I immediately tried to call back.
The number was no longer in service.
Maya and I stared at each other across the narrow hospital room, separated by five feet of polished floor and more questions than either of us knew how to ask.
On the bedside table, Liam began to stir.
Outside, the first snow of the new year drifted past the window.
And somewhere between Brooklyn, Miami, and a voice from thirty years ago, the story of our families had changed into something neither of us recognized.
