“And whose fault is that?” I countered. “Your father chose to keep them secret. You and your brothers chose to treat Joshua as less worthy than yourselves. Now you face the consequences of those choices.”
Dr. Harmon cleared his throat again. “Forgive me, but from a medical perspective, any potential donor should be contacted quickly. Mr. Mitchell’s condition is deteriorating rapidly.”
I considered the man before me—Robert Mitchell, once powerful and intimidating, now diminished by illness and the collapse of his family mythology.
Despite everything he had done, I couldn’t find satisfaction in his suffering. Joshua wouldn’t have wanted that.
“The contact information for your half-siblings,” I said. “Is it included in the letter?”
Robert nodded mutely.
“Then I suggest you begin there,” I told him. “Not with demands, but with humility and truth. Tell them who you are. Explain your medical situation and give them the choice that should be theirs to make.”
I held Robert’s gaze.
“Just as such a choice would be Jenna’s alone—not mine, not yours—if you had approached her with honesty from the beginning.”
“And if they refuse?” Alan asked.
“Then Jenna can decide for herself if she wishes to be tested,” I replied. “But she’ll make that decision with complete knowledge of all facts and alternatives. No manipulation. No pressure. No lies.”
The Mitchell brothers absorbed this in silence, the family resemblance between them and my late husband suddenly more apparent in their chastened expressions. Joshua had had their same strong jawline, the same deep-set eyes—features I now noticed with new clarity.
“We’ll go,” Robert said finally, rising with effort from the sofa. “Thank you for this.” He gestured to the letter, which David carefully folded and returned to the envelope.
As Ellis showed them out, I remained seated, processing the unexpected revelation and its implications.
Joshua had known he had other siblings—family members who might have welcomed him, who shared his biological heritage. Yet he had chosen to keep that knowledge in reserve, using it only as protection for Jenna and me after he was gone.
That evening, as snow fell gently outside the windows of Maple Creek Farm, I opened the laptop for the day’s video from Joshua.
His familiar face appeared on the screen, recorded exactly a year ago in this very room.
“Hello, my love,” he began, his smile warming me across time. “If I’ve calculated correctly, today might be the day my brothers finally play their medical card.”
I gasped softly, once again astonished by his foresight.
“They’ve known about my condition for years. Our father made sure to inform them when I was first diagnosed as a teenager, though they never offered help.”
Joshua’s expression grew thoughtful.
“If they’ve approached you or Jenna about donation compatibility, then you’ve given them the letter about our other siblings.”
He leaned closer to the camera.
“The truth is, Cat—family isn’t about blood. It’s about choice. I chose you and Jenna as my family.”
His eyes held mine through the screen.
“I hope whoever Robert and the others approach will be allowed the same freedom of choice—to help or not, to connect or not—without manipulation or obligation.”
As the video continued, Joshua shared his thoughts on family and legacy with characteristic thoughtfulness. I felt a sense of completion settling over me.
The Mitchell brothers had come seeking to use Jenna as a means to an end, just as they had always used Joshua. Instead, they had been forced to confront the tangled web of secrets their father had woven—and the consequences of their own choices.
Whether they would reach out to their newly discovered siblings with genuine openness, or the same manipulative tactics they’d always employed, remained to be seen.
But that was no longer my concern. Or Joshua’s. Or Jenna’s.
We had broken free of the toxic Mitchell family dynamics, claiming our own legacy through Maple Creek Farm and the life we were building here.
Joshua had transformed his childhood prison into my sanctuary—his painful past into my promising future.
The forbidden farm had become hallowed ground indeed—not because of the oil beneath its soil or the financial security it provided, but because it represented Joshua’s final triumph over the family that had rejected him, and the lasting love that had sustained him.
Spring would come again to Maple Creek Farm. The horses would run in green pastures. Oil would be carefully extracted from the western hills. I would continue creating art in the studio my husband had designed.
Jenna would visit when she could—perhaps bringing children of her own someday to ride horses and explore the land their grandfather had reclaimed.
And Joshua would remain present in the legacy he had so carefully crafted—not just in the daily videos that would eventually end, but in every corner of this place that reflected his love, his foresight, and his determination that the mistakes of the past would not dictate the shape of the future.
The forbidden had become the cherished. The secret had become the celebrated.
And I, Katherine Mitchell, had become the caretaker of a legacy built not on obligation or blood, but on the purest foundation of all: love freely given and gratefully received.
“Until tomorrow, my love,” Joshua said, as the day’s video concluded.
“Until tomorrow,” I whispered back, knowing that while tomorrow would bring a new video—a new message from the past—it would also bring me one day closer to the future I was now creating: inspired by his example, but shaped by my own emerging strength.
The legacy of Maple Creek Farm continued—no longer forbidden, but forever transformed.
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