They had been trying unsuccessfully to have a child.
When Eleanor became pregnant, the family made a decision.
Dad and Mom would raise the baby.
Me.
The arrangement had been private.
Quiet.
Handled through an old family attorney.
Eleanor was sent away during the pregnancy.
When she returned, nobody spoke about what had happened again.
Dad and Mom raised me as their own.
And in every way that mattered to him, Dad wrote, that was exactly what I was.
His son.
But eight weeks earlier, Eleanor had died.
She never married.
Never had another child.
And she left a will.
Everything she owned was left to the son she had given up in 1989.
Me.
The problem was that the adoption had never been finalized through normal court channels.
There was paperwork.
There were old hospital records.
But there were enough gaps that Dad wanted undeniable proof before telling me anything.
