Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN IN NEW MEXICOHer name was Elaine Carter now.
Sixty-three.
Living outside Santa Fe.
We approached carefully through an investigator and attorney.
Not surprise doorstep theater.
When she saw Gabriel’s name, she asked:
“Is Emily alive?”
That answered almost everything.
I cried before meeting her.
Then became furious again.
She knew my name.
Knew I was alive.
Why didn’t she come?
The answer:
She had been placed in a psychiatric facility after losing custody.
Voluntarily at first.
Then under temporary commitment after a breakdown.
She believed corporate people were following her.
Some doctors classified those beliefs as paranoia.
Except parts were true.
After discharge, she tried finding us.
Was told Gabriel had run away and I had been adopted out of state.
Then Charles Whitmore’s attorney contacted her.
Offered a settlement.
Money.
New identity support.
One condition:
No contact with the children until litigation ended.
She refused initially.
Then someone sent photographs of Gabriel outside school.
A note:
Do not drag them back into this.
She panicked.
Signed.
Moved.
Then shame took over.
Years passed.
The litigation never “ended” in any meaningful way.
She convinced herself we were safer without her.
That hurt.
Not evil.
Still a choice.
She admitted:
“I should have looked again.”
Yes.
No excuse.
No instant embrace.
I met her in a quiet room.
She looked at my pregnant belly.
Then at my face.
“Did someone hurt you?”
I laughed.
Of course that was her first question.
“Yes.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Not about Julian.
About everything.
I said:
“You don’t get to disappear because you were scared.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
May you like
Good.
We started there.
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