My mother saw the photo on my screen and her entire body turned as white as a sheet.
“Did you know my father long before you married him, or was everything you told me about how you met a lie?” I asked her.
She sat down slowly in the rusted plastic chair by the window, looking exhausted. The soft dawn light crossed her face, highlighting all the deep wrinkles I had never wanted to acknowledge before.
“Yes,” she finally whispered, “I knew him long before the day he came to our door.”
She told me that as a young woman, she had been a talented chemist at a prestigious state laboratory. She had not always collected cardboard or bottles for survival. She once wore a crisp white coat, conducted experiments, and dreamed of opening a massive research center for environmental health. My father, William, was also a brilliant chemist from a wealthy, influential family. He founded a company called Apex Chemicals, and they worked together on a project to treat industrial water waste that could have changed the whole country.
“I loved him very much,” my mother confessed, “but he eventually married your biological mother, so I stepped aside and kept my distance.”
Later, when my biological mother died, my father sought out Jojo to help him raise me because he knew he could trust her with his life. She agreed because she saw me alone and scared, clutching an old, torn teddy bear.
“When your father died in that wreck, I already had a bus ticket to leave for the countryside,” she said, her voice finally breaking into sobs. “But I passed by your room and heard you crying for your dad, and I simply could not leave you alone in this cruel world.”
Before I could say anything, another message arrived on my screen. It was an old photo of my mother in a lab coat, standing inside a high-tech facility. In the corner of the picture, I saw the logo of the National Chemical Research Institute. Behind her were my father and a tall, stern-looking man I did not recognize. My mother whispered one name: “Gordon Kross.”
The name sounded familiar, and I realized he was the CEO of Kross Biochemical, a powerful conglomerate with international influence.
“He worked with us,” she explained, “there were four of us: your dad, Dr. Parks, Gordon, and me. But when the project started to become profitable, the greed took over and everything changed.”
She did not get a chance to say more because two men in leather jackets arrived at our door. They had been sent by Mr. Barnes to make sure we were feeling the pressure. They stood at the entrance of the tenement and spoke loudly enough for all the neighbors to hear.
“Mrs. Jojo, Mr. Barnes wants you to know that the payment is due, and do not forget he can find you at the university tomorrow.”
“Imagine how lovely that would be, the little doctor receiving his diploma and his mother still being hunted for money,” one of the men laughed.
I stood in front of her, shielding her from their gazes, and felt a surge of cold, hard resolve.
“Threaten her one more time and I will call the police,” I shouted.
One of them just laughed as he turned around to leave.
“Well, start by finding the money, doctor,” he yelled back.
When they left, my mother tried to go back to her work, but I was no longer a child who could be kept in the dark. I opened my laptop and searched for Gordon Kross. I found photos, interviews, and awards documenting his rise to power. In an old investigative article, I read that he had been a lead researcher at my father’s company before founding his own. Then I found the smoking gun: his company had expanded rapidly immediately after my father passed away. My mother begged me to stop looking into it.
“There are things that hurt, Lucas, and some truths are better left in the past.”
“It hurts more that you lied to me for all these years,” I replied sternly.
Then she took a small, silver key from her bag and opened an old wooden drawer that had been locked since I was a child. She took out a rusty metal box and handed it to me. Inside were legal documents, a yellowed letter, and a business card for a lawyer named Mr. Frost.
“Your dad left a will,” she said, “and it was supposed to be safe.”
We went to find the lawyer that same afternoon. Mr. Frost was an older man with thin white hair and trembling hands. When he saw my mother, he froze and dropped his pen.
“Jojo, why did it take you so many years to come back to me?”
My mother started to cry as she sat down in his office. The lawyer opened an old, dusty file.
“Your father came to me three days before he died,” he told me, “and he was terrified. He said someone wanted to force him to hand over research documents that did not belong to him.”
He pulled out a copy of the will, which clearly stated that my father entrusted Jojo with his research, his assets, and my protection. I was frozen in my chair. My mother could have sold those patents, she could have lived like a queen, and she could have lived a life of comfort. She instead chose to collect trash and hide in the shadows to keep me safe.
“Why did you do it?” I asked her.
She cried silently, her head bowed in shame.
“Because if I accepted the money, everyone would say I stayed with you for the inheritance, and I could not let them tarnish your father’s memory.”
Before I could hug her, the lawyer’s cell phone rang, and his face turned gray.
“The man who kept the original documents just had a serious accident,” he said.
We looked at each other without speaking, and we knew exactly who was behind it. We rushed to the hospital, and when we arrived at the emergency room, Gordon Kross was waiting there in a tailored suit. He smiled, a cold and hollow expression.
“Lucas, you have grown so much,” he said.
My mother squeezed my hand so hard it hurt.
“What do you want, Gordon?” she demanded.
He pulled a yellow envelope from his coat.
“Let your son know the whole truth,” he said, holding it out to me. “Here is a DNA test that proves your father was not really your father.”
I felt the floor disappear beneath my feet. My mother turned pale, and the bag with the documents fell to the floor with a loud thud. Just as Gordon was about to open the envelope, a man in a white lab coat appeared at the end of the hall. He looked old, hunched over, and wore thick glasses. My mother whispered one name: “Dr. Heinz.”
The man who had signed my father’s death certificate was standing right in front of us. And I finally understood that the truth had only just begun to surface.
