“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!”
“My sister was desperate. She begged me for help. When I saw the opportunity, I told myself it was fate.”
“You stole my son.”
“I gave him a home.”
“You stole him.”
She finally looked at me. “I thought you’d never know.”
My heart pounded painfully.
Stefan and Eli were swinging side by side. And suddenly, memories clicked into place—Stefan talking in his sleep as if someone were answering him.
“My sister loves him,” she whispered. “She’s raised him. He calls her Mom.”
“And what do I call myself? I’ve mourned a son who was alive.”
“I thought you’d move on. I thought you’d have more children.”
“You don’t replace a child.”
Silence hung between us.
“What’s your sister’s name?”
She hesitated.
“If you refuse to tell me, I’m going straight to the police.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Margaret.”
“Does she know?”
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