20 Years Waited

Twenty years…. How has it been that long? I look at that old faded photo of my smiling little girl. She'd been six the day she disappeared without a trace. We spent weeks searching for her. Nobody knew where she went. Her teacher had marked her as on the bus. She should have gotten on the bus.

Becca was a smart kid. She always got on the right bus and I was waiting for her at the stop…. But when the bus stopped, Becca wasn't on her bus. She wasn't on any of the buses.

Her teacher had told the police that she'd let the college intern handle bus drop-off that day, so she couldn't be positive that Becca got on the right bus. The intern couldn't recall what bus Becca got on. But she knew she'd seen Becca in the bus line.

Every bus was searched, every bus driver was interviewed, and homes were checked; but still nothing. We sent flyers to every school in the country for 5 years with aged-up versions just to see if someone had seen her and if she'd been signed up for school.

The town put together a reward for her return. And when they closed the case, we used the funds to create a scholarship for students looking to go into social work, law or policing, in hopes that someday someone would help bring our daughter home.

The heartbreak broke my wife; it killed her. It has been ten years since she passed. I promised her I would never give up waiting for our daughter.

They'd closed the case a few years ago. Everyone gave up, thinking we'd never see her again. But I never gave up; I stayed in the same house, believing my little girl would come back. She knew her way home. She would remember.

Her favourite colour was green, she loved chocolate chip cookies, and she loved the smell of lilacs in the spring. She knew her address and home phone by heart. She was brave and kind. That was the little girl I lost all those years ago.

We never touched her room. I went into dust every so often, but after the police took what they needed in hopes of finding her, my wife and I cleaned it and left it alone, so that when she came back it would be familiar.

I set down the photo and look at the door to her room. Sometimes I fool myself into thinking she'll walk right out into the hallway. Sometimes I wonder what she looks like now - does she still look just like her mom? Does she still get freckles after being in the sun? Is her laugh still contagious? Does her smile light up a room? Is she safe? Is she happy? Did she get married?

I shake my head. Enough of this foolishness. I needed to take a walk. I put on my hat and am heading for the front door when I hear a knock.

***

Something never added up about the stories my mom told me when I was a child. She claimed I was adopted, but when I turned 18 there was no record of my adoption. She said it was because a family friend's daughter had gotten pregnant too young, so Mom stepped in and offered to take me in as her own since she couldn’t have kids. The way they handled it seemed slightly illegal but I could excuse that.

But I have no photos of me as a baby. They start when I was six. And they all have me with a shaved head. She told me I was sick, but my records don't show my being sick….

I went to school to work in law enforcement and once I got into the detective work, I started looking into things. Things I should have left well enough alone. Cuz the more I dig, the less sure I become about who I am….

It started with me looking into a case, a case I remembered my mother following. A six-year-old named Becca went missing after school one day without a trace. I could never remember how that case ended.

When I asked about it I found out why. It had been closed; there was no solution. I asked my boss if I could look into it during my off time. He said yes - as long as I left the family alone. The husband was the only one left and nobody wanted to get his hopes up for no reason.

I looked at the photos of this little Becca; maybe it was wishful thinking, but Becca looked a lot like me. Or at least like childhood me.

So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I did a DNA test with one of those online sites…. Surely if their daughter was missing the family would have their DNA in a system somewhere. I didn't need anyone's permission for that.

I didn't even need to tell my mom what I was doing; we'd stopped speaking once I insisted on going to school to work in law enforcement. She had said she would stop speaking to me if I did. And I did and she kept her word. She gave me a place to stay while I was studying but once I got a job she stopped talking to me. I check in every once in a while. But otherwise, we have no contact.

I had sent my little tube away, and now I’m waiting. While I wait, I look over all the info on the case. Is there a chance I was this little girl? I force myself to think back… back before my earliest memory…

Nothing clear comes to me, but I remember falling asleep on a school bus and waking up in the car, then being dropped off on a farm and arguing with someone that they dropped me off at the wrong place.

Then it fades. I can't remember anything before that. I remember that farm - I did school there for a while before I was sent to school. Was I mixing up memories? Or was that right? I just have to wait.

A few weeks later my results come back. I have matches! I look to the spot for parentage and there it is - the name of the family involved in the case. This man could be my father!

Then it hits me like a ton of bricks - if this man is, in fact, my father… Then everything I know about myself is in fact a lie… I have to meet him.

I take a day off work and drive down to the town where the case was based. I visit the school; it feels vaguely familiar, so I drive to the address of the house. I can only hope he never left. I pull up to the house and everything feels familiar like it was from a dream.

I watch the house for a moment, then take a deep breath and walk up to the front door and knock.

A man opens the door. “Hello, you have good timing, I was about to leave. How may I help you?”

I feel overwhelmed. “I…I am a detective. I was reviewing some closed unsolved cases, and I came across yours and, well… Here!” I hand him an envelope of photos from my childhood, next to the photos from the case file. The DNA test is also in there.

He cautiously opens the envelope, and as he looks through it, tears fill his eyes. “Becca?”

“I think so.” I cry too.

“May I hug you?” I nod, and for the first time, I feel at home. I don’t know what will come next, but I know I will find my family.