The Secret Child
Then Caleb’s gaze shifted to the girl. “There’s something else you don’t know.”
He rested a hand on her shoulder. “She isn’t mine. She’s Mom’s.”
I staggered back. “What are you talking about?”
The girl spoke clearly, as though rehearsed: “My name is Jane. My birth mother was Margaret Fairchild.”
The ground tilted under me.
Caleb explained softly, “Years ago, when Mom disappeared for a while, she gave birth. She left the baby in foster care. Said she wasn’t ready.
But near the end of her life, she found Jane again. She asked me to raise her. To give her what she couldn’t.”
The child’s features—the dimple in her chin, the curve of her smile—were undeniable. She carried our family’s face.
