Naomi contacted the college’s records office through a lawful request.
A former instructor remembered a part-time literacy tutor who used the name Rebecca Lowell.
The tutor had been quiet and dependable.
She resigned after a sudden illness.
The instructor did not know whether she recovered.
I wanted to drive there immediately.
Claire asked me to wait until we had an actual address or contact.
I spent three nights staring at online maps.
Hazel finally sat beside me and closed the laptop.
“Dad, I think you’re forgetting I’m here,” she said.
I apologized.
She explained that every conversation at home had become a conversation about Ruth.
She wanted me to find my mother.
She also wanted to talk about school, her friends, and the sculpture she hoped to enter in the county fair.
I realized that my pursuit of one lost family relationship was weakening another.
The following morning I drove Hazel to school without discussing the investigation.
She told me about a classmate who had ruined a group project by accidentally deleting their presentation.
I listened to every word.
That afternoon we worked on her sculpture in the garage.
The piece was shaped like a doorway made from salvaged wood.
She said it represented entering a place without knowing what waited inside.
I recognized the metaphor but let it belong to her.
Chapter 33: The Unlisted Number
The breakthrough came through an old employment reference.
A former college administrator remembered that Rebecca had listed a friend as her emergency contact.
The administrator could not release confidential information directly.
She did agree to forward a letter through official channels.
Naomi drafted a short note explaining our identities and requesting voluntary contact.
I wrote my own message beneath it.
I said that Ruth’s children were alive, that we missed her, and that we wanted any information the friend felt comfortable sharing.
I did not demand answers.
I had learned how easily a demand could turn fear into silence.
Four days later an unlisted number called my phone.
A woman introduced herself as Esther Cole.
She had known Rebecca for several years.
She asked whether I was alone.
I told her Claire was beside me.
“I have something difficult to say,” Esther answered.
My pulse thudded.
“Is she dead?”
Esther did not answer immediately.
Then she said Rebecca had died six years earlier after complications from a long illness.
She had been cared for by friends in Fairhaven.
She had no legal spouse and left very little property.
