Chapter 13 The Keeper of Secrets

The care facility had a strong odor of antiseptic and overcooked vegetables. Wren signed in at the front desk, her hand still shaking from last night—from Lily's voice saying I hate you, from Jonah's office light going dark, from the secret that was unraveling faster than she could control.

The receptionist—a young woman with kind eyes and a name tag that read MARIA—smiled at her. "Your mother had a good morning. She ate breakfast and asked about you."

"She asked about me?" Wren's voice came out rough. She hadn't slept and hadn't eaten. She hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten. The phone lay heavy in her hand, its screen a silent witness to every unanswered call. She had spent the long hours staring at it, waiting for Lily to call back. Lily never did.

"She did. Said her daughter was coming to visit." Maria's smile widened. "She was very clear about it."

Wren's chest tightened with hope she didn't deserve. "That's—that's good."

"Room 14. You know the way."

She did. Down the hallway with its cheerful paintings that tried too hard. Past the common room where elderly residents sat watching morning television. Past room 12, where Mrs. Chen's mother stays, the woman who'd welcomed Wren back to Cascade with nothing but warmth.

Room 14. The door was open. Sunlight streamed through the window, catching dust motes in the air. And there—sitting in the chair by the window, wrapped in a blue cardigan that used to fit but now hung loose on her thinning frame—was Ruth Blackwood.

"Mom?" Wren stepped inside. Her mother's hair was white now, cut short for easy care. Her face was lined in ways Wren didn't remember, carved deeper by a decade of Wren's absence.

Ruth turned. Her eyes—still dark, still her mother's eyes—focused on Wren's face. For a moment, there was nothing. Blank recognition. The kind that made Wren want to run.

Then Ruth smiled. "There you are."

Relief flooded through Wren so fast she had to grip the doorframe. "Hi, Mom."

"I told them you'd come." Ruth's voice was softer than it used to be, a little vague around the edges, but present. Here. "They didn't believe me, but I knew."

Wren crossed the room. Knelt beside her mother's chair. Took her hand—so small now, so fragile. "I'm here. I'm working at the museum. I told you, remember? Last week?"

Ruth's face creased in concentration. "The museum. Yes. With the birds."

"With the birds," Wren confirmed. "I'm restoring a collection. It's—Mom, I think it's Elias's collection. Your grandfather."

"Elias." The name came out like a sigh. Ruth's fingers tightened on Wren's. "He left too. They all leave."

Wren's throat closed. "Mom—"

"But you came back." Ruth's other hand came up, cupped Wren's cheek. The touch was so achingly familiar that Wren's eyes burned. "My bird. My little bird. You flew back."

"I did. I came back."

"For him?" Ruth asked. Her eyes sharpened suddenly, focus snapping into place with an intensity that made Wren's breath catch. "Did you tell him yet?"

Wren went very still. "Tell him what?"

"About the baby." Ruth's voice was clear now. Completely clear. Like the fog had lifted for just this moment. "About Lily. Did you tell that Raines boy?"

The room tilted. "Mom, how did you—"

"I'm old, not stupid." Ruth's hand stayed on Wren's cheek. "You think I didn't know? You think I couldn't see it in your eyes every time you called from Seattle? Every time you wouldn't let me visit? Every picture you sent of that beautiful child who has his eyes?"

Tears spilled over. Wren couldn't stop them. "Mom—"

"Why didn't you tell him?" Ruth's voice softened again, but the clarity remained. "Why did you run?"

"I was scared." The confession came out broken. "I was twenty-two and pregnant, and you were starting to forget things, and Jonah had his whole life ahead of him and I—" She stopped. Started again. "I thought I was protecting him."

"From what? From love? From family?" Ruth shook her head. "You were protecting yourself, bird. From failing. From staying. From having to be brave."

The words landed like blows. True. Devastating. Everything Wren had spent ten years not saying out loud.

"I know," she whispered. "I know that now."

"Does he know about her? About Lily?"

"No. Not yet. I tried to tell him, I'm but—" Wren's voice broke. "He won't listen. He won't even look at me. And now Lily knows I lied. She called me last night and she—Mom, she said she hates me."

Ruth's expression crumpled. "Oh, bird."

"She found articles online. About Jonah. About when I left. People wrote comments—awful things. She read them and she…" Wren’s voice broke. The words jammed in her throat, sharp as glass. Her chest ached with the weight of them, but she couldn’t force them free. To speak them—my daughter hates me—would etch the truth into stone, unerasable, undeniable.

"Children don't hate their mothers." Ruth's hand moved to Wren's hair, smoothing it as she used to when Wren was small. "They hate what we do. They hate it when we lie. But they don't hate us. Not really. Not forever."

"She hung up on me."

"Then you call her back. You call her until she answers. You tell her the truth—all of it. You tell her why you were scared and why you ran and why you came back." Ruth's voice was firm now. Strong. The mother Wren remembered from childhood, before the disease started stealing her away. "And then you do the same thing with that boy."

"He won't listen. I tried—"

"You tried once. In his office. With him caught off guard and you terrified, and neither of you ready." Ruth leaned forward. "Try again. Keep trying. Make him listen."

"How?"

"However, you have to." Ruth's eyes bored into Wren's. "You write him a letter. You show up at his house. You stand outside his office until he has no choice but to face you. You do whatever it takes because that little girl—our Lily—she deserves a father. And Jonah deserves to know he has a daughter. And you—" Her voice softened. "You deserve the chance to make this right."

"What if he never forgives me?"

"Then at least you tried." Ruth sat back in her chair, exhausted now, the clarity already starting to fade. "At least you were brave enough to try."

Wren stayed kneeling there, holding her mother's hand, watching the sharpness leave Ruth's eyes. The fog is returning. The moment of perfect lucidity slips away like water through fingers.

"Mom?" she tried. "Mom, are you still with me?"

Ruth blinked. Looked at Wren like she was trying to place her. "Do I know you?"

The question was a knife. "I'm Wren. Your daughter."

"Wren." Ruth tested the name. "That's a bird, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mom. It's a bird."

"I like birds." Ruth smiled vaguely. "Did you bring the birds? The ones with the pretty feathers?"

"Not today," Wren managed. "But I will. I promise."

"That's nice." Ruth's attention drifted to the window. "Look at the trees. They're so green. Is it spring?"

"It's March. Almost spring."

"March." Ruth nodded. "That's when the birds come back. When they fly home."

Wren lingered, her chair pulled close to Ruth’s. The old woman’s gaze wandered—sometimes sharp, sometimes lost, sometimes hovering in a fog between. Their words circled harmless ground: the sparrows outside the window, the sway of the trees, the chill in the air. Ruth’s brow furrowed as she looked at Wren. “Who are you?” she asked. Once. Then again. And again. Each time, Wren’s reply was steady, gentle, the same: “I’m your daughter.”

Each time, Ruth smiled and said, "Oh, that's lovely."

By the time Wren left, the sun was high, and her phone had six missed calls from Seattle. All from Lily's aunt.

She sat in her truck in the parking lot and called back.

Rachel picked up on the first ring. “Wren. Thank God.”

“Is she okay?”

“Physically? Yes. Emotionally…” Rachel’s sigh dragged through the line. “She’s shattered. Won’t leave her room. Won’t eat. Won’t speak to me.”

“Let me talk to her.”

“She won’t—”

“Please, Rachel. Let me try.”

Silence stretched. Then the faint shuffle of footsteps, a knock against wood. Rachel’s voice, muffled through distance: “Lily, honey, your mom’s on the phone.”

The pause that followed was heavier than words. Nothing came back.

"Lily, please—"

"I don't want to talk to her."

Wren's heart cracked. "Baby, please. I need to explain—"

"You lied to me!" Lily's voice came through, distant but clear. "You lied about everything!"

"I know. I know I did. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"You said he didn't know! You said you couldn't find him!"

"I was wrong. I was scared, and I made terrible choices, and I—" Wren stopped. Took a breath. "You're right. I lied. But I'm trying to make it right now."

"How?" The word came out small. Broken. "How do you make this right?"

"I'm going to tell him. About you. About everything."

"When?"

"Soon. As soon as I can make him listen."

"Why won't he listen?"

Because I broke his heart. Because he hates me. Because I deserve his hatred.

"Because he's hurt," Wren said instead. "Because I hurt him very badly when I left. And he's not ready to hear why."

"But I'm his daughter." Lily's voice cracked. "Doesn't that matter?"

"It matters more than anything. And he's going to love you. I promise you, baby, he's going to love you so much."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know him. Because he's good and kind and—" Wren stopped. "Because you're you. And you're impossible not to love."

Silence. Long enough that Wren thought Lily had hung up again.

Then: "I'm still mad at you."

"I know."

"I don't forgive you."

"I know."

"But—" Lily's voice got smaller. "But I love you. Even though I'm mad. I still love you."

Wren's vision blurred. "I love you too, baby. So much."

"Tell him soon, Mom. Please. I want to meet him."

"I will. I promise."

After they hung up, Wren sat in her truck and cried. Big, ugly sobs that shook her whole body. For Lily. For Ruth. For Jonah. For the mess she'd made of all their lives.

When she finally drove back to the museum, it was afternoon. The parking lot was full—visitors milling around the entrance, a school group gathered on the steps. She parked in the staff lot and went in through the back.

The lab was quiet. Safe. She could lose herself in the work. In the careful precision of restoration. In fixing things that could actually be fixed.

She was examining the thrush's broken mount when she heard footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Deliberate. Male.

Not Dr. Webb's gentle shuffle. Not the quick clip of the intern's sneakers.

She knew those footsteps. Would know them anywhere.

Jonah appeared in the doorway. Still in his suit from whatever meeting he'd just left. His face was carefully blank. Professional mask firmly in place.

"Ms. Blackwood." His voice was cold. Formal. "We need to discuss your work schedule."

"My schedule?" Wren set down her tools. "Is there a problem?"

"The board has requested weekly progress reports. I'll need you to compile detailed documentation of each restoration." He held out a folder. Didn't step into the lab. Didn't come close enough that they might accidentally touch. "The forms are here. First report due Friday."

She took the folder. Their fingers didn't touch. He made sure of that.

"Friday," she repeated. "That's two days."

"Is that a problem?"

Yes. Everything is a problem. I need to tell you about your daughter, and you won't even look at me.

"No," she said instead. "No problem."

"Good." He turned to leave.

"Jonah—"

"Director Raines."

The correction was a slap. She deserved it.

"Director Raines," she corrected, hating the formal distance. "I need to talk to you. About something important."

"If it's about the collection, email me."

"It's not about the collection."

"Then it can wait." He was already walking away.

"It can't wait."

He stopped. Didn't turn around. "Ms. Blackwood, I've made my position clear. We are colleagues. Nothing more. If you have work-related questions, email me or speak with Dr. Webb. If it's personal—" His voice went even colder. "I'm not interested."

"Please. Just five minutes—"

"No." At last, he turned, his gaze locking on hers. The look—God, the look—was pure ice. “I don’t know what you thought would happen when you came back. If you expected forgiveness, understanding, or a second chance. But I’ve been clear about the boundaries. We work together. That’s all. And if you can’t respect that—if you keep pressing for conversations I don’t want—then maybe this position isn’t the right fit.”

The threat was clear. Stop pushing or lose the job.

Wren's hands clenched at her sides. "You're right. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"Good." He left without another word.

She stood there in the empty lab, surrounded by dead birds and broken mounts and all the things she'd destroyed.

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

Time’s running out. The town knows. It’s only a matter of time before he hears it from someone else. Tell him. Tonight.

She stared at the message. At the warning. At the countdown clock that was ticking faster than she could control.

How? How was she supposed to make him listen when he wouldn't even stay in the same room with her?

The answer came slowly. Painfully.

She couldn't make him listen.

But she could make him read.

She pulled out her laptop. Opened a blank document. And started writing.

Dear Jonah,

I know you don’t want to hear this. You’ve made it clear that my reasons don’t matter. But there’s something you need to know—something I should have told you ten years ago. Something I tried to say in your office, but the words wouldn’t come.

I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you or because I wanted to. I left because—

Her fingers froze. The cursor blinked, impatient. She deleted every line, then began again.

This letter would change everything.

Or shatter what little remained.

Either way, he deserved the truth.

Even if the truth meant losing him forever.