A sharp-edged envelope arrived in the mail, bearing the stark insignia of the Veterans Administration. My hands trembled as I tore it open.
The typewritten words blurred. “Notice of Revocation.” My $420 monthly military widow’s pension, permanently suspended.
The reason cited: “Allegations of marital infidelity filed directly by Mr. Arthur Holbrook.”
Attached was a second document, a forged affidavit. It claimed Julian was not the biological father of Thomas, casting full doubt on my son’s legitimacy under military law.
A wave of nausea washed over me. Arthur wasn’t just isolating me; he was attacking Thomas, trying to make my son a “paper bastard.” He was trying to sever the last official link to Julian, to erase his very existence.
I folded the papers tightly, the sharp creases digging into my palm. Penniless and without support, I needed to work.
I found a late-night job at a legal printing shop near City Hall, the air thick with the smell of ink and paper. I filed stacks of dense legal documents for $1.60 an hour, enough to buy formula and a few groceries.
My fingers ached by morning, but the exhaustion was a dull shield against the pain. I pushed through each shift, thinking of Thomas.
Salinger called me one evening, his voice tight with urgency. “I have a contact at Bethesda Naval Hospital,” he said. “He says the original military blood testing records exist.”
My heart leaped. “Can we get them?”
“Arthur,” Salinger replied, his voice grim, “he’s locked them down under defense secrecy orders. Said it was a matter of national security.”
The silence stretched, thick with Arthur’s reach. He wouldn’t let go of anything that could expose his lies.
“But they’re there,” I insisted, a sliver of hope. “They exist.”
“They exist,” Salinger confirmed. “But getting to them… that’s another matter entirely.”
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