My mother’s voice. After two decades of silence.
“We need to discuss our grandson.”
Our grandson? Not your son? Not Seagar? Our grandson, like he was property they’d suddenly remembered they’d misplaced.
The emails started next, sent to my restaurant’s public address. Professional. Cold.
“Dear Olivia,
We hope this message finds you well. Recent news has come to our attention regarding Sigard’s remarkable achievements. As his grandparents, we feel it’s time to reconnect.”
They signed it from their corporate email. Harrison Industries, the company they’d protected by discarding me.
Lance found me crying in my office, not from sadness, but from rage.
“They want him now that he’s successful,” I said. “Twenty years of nothing and now they want to claim him.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Make them disappear again.”
He pulled me close.
“We can do that. But first, let me check something in Elena’s papers. She mentioned provisions for this exact situation.”
That night, Sigard worked a 16-hour shift, saving two lives. He had no idea his grandparents existed, let alone that they were circling like vultures who’d spotted gold.
They started small. A reservation at Rossy’s under a fake name, sitting in my section, watching me work. I recognized my mother’s emerald ring before her face. She’d aged poorly. Botox fighting a losing battle with bitterness.
“Good evening. I’m Olivia.”
“Olivia,” my mother said. “We know who you are.”
My father set down his menu like a verdict.
“We need to discuss Seagar.”
“You need to leave.”
They didn’t.
Instead, packages arrived at the hospital. A Rolex Submariner for Sigard, a Mont Blom pen set, a first edition Grey’s Anatomy worth thousands. Each gift card signed, “Your loving grandparents.”
Sigur brought them home, confused.
“Mom, someone keeps sending me expensive things. Should I be worried?”
“Return them,” I said. “All of them.”
Lance intercepted their next move, a formal letter requesting grandparent visitation rights. He laughed, actually laughed, as he read it to me.
“They cite established family bonds,” he said. “Bonds they severed with this.”
He pulled out a photocopy, the document they’d signed 20 years ago, relinquishing all parental rights and responsibilities.
“They didn’t just kick you out, Olivia. They legally downed you and any children you might have.”
But they kept pushing. They hired a private investigator who followed Seagar’s routine. They contacted the hospital board, introducing themselves as Dr. Harrison’s grandparents, trying to get invited to fundraisers.
The final straw came when my mother approached Sigard directly at a coffee shop near the hospital.
“You look just like your grandfather,” she said, blocking his path.
“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
“I’m your grandmother, sweetheart. Your mother has kept us apart.”
But Sigard called me immediately.
“Mom, some woman claiming to be my grandmother just ambushed me. Should I call security?”
“Yes,” I said. “Always.”
The call came at 2 a.m. because Owen always had terrible timing.
“Liv, it’s me. Please don’t hang up.”
Twenty years and he still thought “it’s me” would mean something.
“What do you want, Owen?”
“I saw the news about our—about Sigard. He’s incredible. Our son.”
Now he was our son. When I was 17 and terrified, Sigard was my problem. Now that he was saving lives and making headlines, Owen remembered his DNA contribution.
“He doesn’t know you exist,” I said. “Let’s keep it that way.”
“That’s not fair. I was 18, Liv. My parents threatened to—”
“To what? Disown you, kick you out, make you sleep in parks while pregnant?”
Silence.
“That’s what I thought.”