“What did you just say?”
Arthur slowly stood, tears already running down his face.
“Our baby didn’t survive,” he confessed shakily. “The son you gave birth to died shortly after delivery.”
The room went still again.
“No,” Beatrice gasped. “That’s impossible. Mark is right here.”
Arthur buried his face in his hands.
“Mark was adopted,” he admitted. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you waking up to the loss of your child. I arranged the adoption immediately.”
Beatrice looked physically ill.
“You lied to me for thirty years?”
“I loved you,” Arthur sobbed. “You were desperate to be a mother. I thought I was saving you.”
Mark finally stepped forward.
“Does it really matter, Mom?” he asked quietly. “I’m still your son.”
But Beatrice looked shattered.
“I judged Sarah for years,” she whispered. “And I’m exactly like her.”
“No,” Sarah said softly. “You’re exactly like me in the best possible way.”
Everyone at the table remained silent as Sarah moved closer to the woman who had humiliated her for years.
“You loved him,” Sarah continued gently. “You raised him. You comforted him when he was sick. You stayed awake helping him with school projects. You cried when he left for college.”
Tears streamed down Beatrice’s face.
“I did,” she whispered.
“Then you are his mother,” Sarah said firmly. “DNA didn’t raise him. Love did.”
For the first time in years, Beatrice had nothing cruel left to say.
