He worked calmly. Professionally. Kind eyes that actually saw me.
“You lost a lot of blood,” he said. “We’re going to run some tests. Standard procedure.”
I nodded, expecting anemia, infection, routine stuff.
After the stitches, he told me to rest while they waited for lab results.
I lay there in my bloodstained janitor uniform staring at the ceiling, thinking about my father telling me hard times build character, wondering what he’d think if he could see me now.
I didn’t know it yet, but I was about to learn who my father really was.
Dr. Adebayo came back about an hour later.
He wasn’t alone.
Two other doctors followed him, faces unreadable. They stood at the foot of my bed exchanging glances like they were deciding who would speak.
“Mr. Webb,” Dr. Adebayo said carefully, “we found some anomalies in your blood work. I asked some colleagues to consult.”
My heart sank.
Cancer. Leukemia. Something rare and final.
Part of me almost felt relieved.
Just tell me, I thought.
End it.
But Dr. Adebayo shook his head.
“It’s not what you’re thinking. This isn’t about illness.”
He hesitated.
“We found unusual genetic markers. Markers that triggered a flag in our database.”
The door opened again.
An older woman in a white coat entered—sharp eyes behind wire-frame glasses, the kind of authority that made the other doctors step aside automatically.
“Mr. Webb,” she said, “I’m Dr. Pauline Weaver, head of genetics.”
She pulled a chair close and sat down beside my bed, her gaze steady.
“I need to ask about your father,” she said. “Was he adopted?”
“Yes,” I said, confused. “As an infant in 1952.”
Dr. Weaver nodded slowly like I confirmed something she’d already suspected.
“Did he ever search for his biological parents? Any records? Any information?”
“No,” I said. “He always said the people who raised you are your real family.”
Dr. Weaver went quiet for a moment.
Then she leaned forward.
“Mr. Webb,” she said, voice gentle but deliberate, “your blood contains genetic markers we’ve only encountered once before in our entire database.”
My mouth went dry.
“These markers are associated with a specific bloodline,” she continued. “A family whose medical records have been part of our system for decades due to their substantial donations to this hospital.”
“What family?” I whispered.
“The Thornwood family.”
The name hit me like a fist.
Everybody in Pennsylvania knew the Thornwoods. Steel empire. Foundation name on buildings. Scholarships. Research centers. Hospitals.
Elliot Thornwood died two months earlier at ninety-four. Estate worth over nine billion. Lawyers and journalists had been dissecting the inheritance for weeks.
Elliot had no living heirs. His only son, Franklin Thornwood, died in 1985. Franklin never married. Franklin had no children.
Or so the official story claimed.
Dr. Weaver watched my face as the pieces clicked into place like gears.
“Mr. Webb,” she said softly, “according to your genetic profile, you are the biological grandson of Elliot Thornwood.”
My throat closed.
“That’s impossible,” I whispered. “My father was nobody. He worked in a steel mill his whole life. He never had money. He never had—”
“He never knew,” Dr. Weaver said gently. “The adoption records were sealed. The Thornwood family made sure of it.”
She didn’t flinch as she delivered the next part.
“Your father, George, was the illegitimate son of Franklin Thornwood. He was born in 1952 as the result of an affair Franklin had with a woman who worked at the family estate. The pregnancy was hidden. The baby was given up for adoption to protect the family’s reputation.”
I couldn’t breathe.
The room shrank.
“DNA doesn’t lie, Mr. Webb,” she said. “We ran the test three times. You are Franklin Thornwood’s grandson.”
She paused once, letting the weight land.
“You are the sole surviving heir to the Thornwood estate.”
The next several weeks were a hurricane.
Lawyers. Verification. Media frenzy.
The Thornwood Foundation’s legal team contested my claim. They’d spent months preparing to distribute the estate according to Elliot’s charitable wishes. A hospital janitor claiming to be a lost heir sounded like a bad movie plot.
But evidence doesn’t care about dignity.
Three independent labs confirmed my genetic connection. Genealogists traced my father’s adoption back to a Catholic orphanage in Pittsburgh that received large donations from the Thornwood family in 1952.
Same year George Webb was born. Same year he disappeared into a new identity.
The legal battle lasted six weeks.
In the end, the courts ruled in my favor.
Elliot Thornwood’s will was explicit: any biological descendant inherits everything.
On a cold Thursday afternoon in Pittsburgh, I sat in a conference room surrounded by lawyers and formally accepted my inheritance.
Nine point four billion dollars.
I walked out into winter air and felt the cold sting my face.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I opened it.
Nolan, I saw the news. Congratulations. I always believed in you. Maybe we should talk. I miss you. —Simone
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