“But three months ago, on my sixteenth birthday, I met a nurse named Patricia Morrison. She was with my mother the night she died, and she gave me something my mother wanted me to have.”
“The truth.”
Andrew stood up.
“Madison, what are you—”
“Sit down, Dad.”
Madison’s voice cut through the room like a knife.
“For sixteen years, you’ve talked. Tonight, you’re going to listen.”
She pressed the button.
The speakers crackled—and then Samantha’s voice filled the ballroom.
Weak. Desperate. Dying.
“Andrew… please let me hold her just one more time. Please, I’m begging you.”
You could have heard a pin drop.
Every person in that room froze.
On the screen, a photo appeared—Samantha, pregnant, glowing, smiling at the camera with her hands on her belly.
Six months before she died.
The recording continued.
Andrew’s voice—cold, dismissive.
“Samantha, you need to save your strength. The baby’s fine.”
“Why?” Samantha cried. “Why is she here? Why is Jennifer here?”
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
People turned to look at Jennifer.
Her face had gone white.
She was shaking her head.
“No. No, no, no.”
But the recording didn’t stop.
“She’s here to support me. This is hard for me, too.”
