“And?”
“Kids, we’re just going to sit by the benches over there. Stay here where we can see you.”
Every instinct warned me not to trust her. But I needed the truth.
“If you do anything suspicious,” I warned, “I’ll go to the police.”
“You won’t like what you hear.”
“I already don’t.”
We sat on the bench. Her hands were shaking.
“Your labor was traumatic. You lost a lot of blood. There were complications.”
“I know that. I lived it.”
She swallowed. “The second baby wasn’t stillborn.”
The world tilted.
“What?”
“He was small. But he was breathing.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Five years,” I whispered. “All this time you let me believe my child was dead?”
She looked at the grass. “I told the doctor he didn’t survive. He trusted my report.”
“You falsified medical records?”
“I convinced myself it was mercy. You were unconscious, weak, and alone. No partner or family was in the room. I thought raising two babies would break you.”
“You didn’t get to decide that!”
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