Wilhelmina Winters, Fifty-Three

Wil instinctively moved forward and took the envelope from her father.  She turned it over, staring at the cursive on its front without comprehension. She looked up at her parents, and felt some alarm at their anxious expressions. She looked back down at her hand, reading her full name and previous address in its black ink.

Glancing one last time at the nervous couch occupants, Wil flipped the envelope over and carefully withdrew the contents: an official-feeling paper in trifold, and a softer group of notebook pages in creative fold.

Wil spread open the stiff page first, and skimmed it. Her brows creased together as she read, then raised in surprise. She sat down on the floor, and was lucky she didn’t miss.

The page was a darkly-copied birth certificate for Wilhelmina Winters. She had Wil’s birthday. She had Wil’s father. She was born in a hospital thirteen years previously. She was delivered by a Doctor Tolman. This Wilhelmina’s mother, however, was listed as Guinevere Greene.

The information seeped slowly into Wil’s brain, passing barriers of familiarity, trust, disbelief, consideration, then realization.

“What?!” Wil shouted. She stood again, and moved a step forward. Surprise and confusion were quickly followed by distrust, and she stopped. Looking up at her father, whose expression tightened, Wil confirmed her initial conclusions.

“Wil, honey,” Cynthia began. Wil turned blankly to her. “Please, come here.” She held out her arms to Wil, the IV tube dragging behind her. The pathetic image pulled at Wil’s heart.

Wil hesitated as her feelings churned. Her insides were an emotional soup, and someone kept raising ladles of different strains every few seconds. But her mother -the woman she thought of as mother- had only ever been loving and kind. The woman she knew as mother looked at her with such tender, searching, tear-bright eyes.

Tears formed in Wil’s own eyes. She rushed forward and accepted Cynthia’s embrace. She immediately burst into tears. Cynthia mother rocked slightly, smoothing Wil’s hair and crying gently.

Loud sniffling and soft crying echoed against a beeping IV machine in the small living room of Unit 2, Building 4. Wil and Cynthia held each other forever, as her father uncomfortably watched. Sighing, he rubbed the side of his face.

And waited.

 

Continued from Fifty-Two.
Keep reading to Fifty-Four.

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