I was in a horrific accident and left unconscious. The doctors called my parents—they said…

It was so perfectly on brand for them. The surgery happened on day five. I remember being wheeled somewhere, bright lights overhead, then nothing until waking in recovery with a pounding headache and Emily’s voice.

You did it, Rebecca. Surgery went perfectly. Dr. Chin says your brain swelling is already reducing.

They’re going to start bringing you out of the coma tomorrow. True consciousness returned gradually. First the ability to squeeze a hand when asked.

Then opening my eyes to blinding light. Then the agonizing process of having the breathing tube removed. WH-WHERE? My first word croaked through lips that felt alien.

Massachusetts General, Emily answered, appearing in my field of vision. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.

But I wasn’t okay. Not really. Because now I had to process what I’d heard.

My parents had not only abandoned me my entire life, they had literally left me to die. Recovery was excruciating. Every movement sent shards of pain through my broken body.

The first time they helped me sit up, I vomited from the vertigo. The first steps I took with the physical therapist left me drenched in sweat and tears. But physical pain was nothing compared to the psychological wound of knowing my parents had walked away when I needed them most.

That knowledge sat like poison in my veins, tainting every moment of recovery. You’re doing amazing, Samantha would say during her daily visits. She’d brought my laptop, handled company decisions, fielded press inquiries about my accident.

The doctors say you’re recovering twice as fast as expected. Spite is a powerful motivator. I joked weekly.

It was during the second week of my hospital stay that Samantha finally told me about Grandmother Martha. I didn’t want to add to your stress, she explained, sitting in the visitor’s chair beside my bed. But you should know.

Your grandmother’s attorney has been trying to reach you. Your parents are challenging the will. What? I struggled to sit up straighter.

On what grounds? They’re claiming you’re mentally incompetent due to your injuries. Samantha’s expression was grim. They filed the paperwork three days after your accident.

The timing wasn’t coincidental. They’d walked out of my hospital room, leaving me to die and gone straight to a lawyer to steal my inheritance. I need to talk to her attorney, I insisted.

James Wright arrived the next morning, a dignified man in his 60s with silver hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He’d been my grandmother’s attorney for 30 years. Miss Mitchell, he greeted me formally.

I’m relieved to see you recovering. Your grandmother would be pleased. My parents are trying to steal her house, I said without preamble.

He nodded, placing his briefcase on the bedside table. They filed for an emergency conservatorship, citing your medical condition. I’ve submitted medical reports from your doctors, confirming you’re competent to manage your affairs.

The judge has temporarily frozen the estate until you can appear in court. When? That’s up to your medical team. There’s no rush.

The assets are secure. He pulled out a thick envelope from his briefcase. Your grandmother asked me to give you this, if anything happened to her before she could tell you herself.

The envelope felt heavy in my hands. What is it? The truth, I believe. He stood to leave.

She loved you very much, Rebecca. Never doubt that. I waited until evening to open it, after the nurses had finished their rounds and the hospital had quieted for the night.

Inside was a letter written in my grandmother’s elegant script and several official-looking documents. My dearest Rebecca, the letter began. If you’re reading this, I’ve failed to keep my promise to tell you everything in person.

Forgive an old woman’s cowardice. Some truths are harder to speak aloud than others. You’ve wondered about your birth parents all your life.

The truth is, your mother was my niece, Caroline. She was 18 when she got pregnant. Young, scared, and in no position to raise a child.

Your biological father was her high school boyfriend who left for college and wanted nothing to do with a baby. I suggested adoption within the family. My son Richard and his wife Margaret had been trying for a child without success.

It seemed the perfect solution. You would remain connected to your biological family and they would have the baby they desperately wanted. What I didn’t know then was that Margaret was already pregnant with Alison.

She learned this just weeks after they took you home. Suddenly, they had two infant daughters instead of one. I watched over the years as they treated you differently.

I confronted Richard about it many times. He would always promise to do better, to love you equally. But some people cannot love what doesn’t come from their own blood, no matter how precious the gift.

The legal adoption was completed. Regardless of what they may have told you, you are legally their daughter with all the rights that entails. I’ve included the court documents proving this.

I’ve also included the truth about your birth mother. Caroline died five years ago in a car accident, having never married or had other children. She asked about you often.

I kept her updated on your accomplishments, your growth into the remarkable woman you’ve become. The house and everything I leave to you is rightfully yours, not just by my choice, but by blood. You are my family in every way that matters.

I hope you can forgive me for not telling you sooner. I thought I was protecting you, but perhaps I was really protecting myself from having to explain my role in placing you with parents who couldn’t love you as you deserved. Know that I have loved you completely from the moment Caroline placed you in my arms.

All my love, always. Grandmother Martha. I read the letter three times, tears streaming down my face.

Then I examined the documents, my original birth certificate naming Caroline Mitchell as my mother, the adoption papers with my parents’ signatures, the amended birth certificate listing Margaret and Richard Mitchell as my parents. It was all there. The truth.

The proof. The confirmation that legally, morally, and by blood, I was a Mitchell. And my parents had lied to the doctors, probably to Allison and certainly to themselves.

That night, I made two decisions. First, I would recover fully no matter how hard I had to work. And second, I would make sure my parents faced the consequences of their actions.

I threw myself into physical therapy with renewed determination. Two broken ribs, a shattered collarbone, facial fractures, and traumatic brain injury. None of it would stop me.

I graduated from Walker to Kane within weeks, surprising even my therapists. You’re a machine, my physical therapist Jake commented during one particularly grueling session. I have somewhere important to be, I replied, pushing through the pain to complete another set of exercises…