Page 42 of The Other Mother
"That's not you?" Lex asks, though from their tone, they already know the answer.
I shake my head, unable to speak. Adam. Adam created this document. Adam signed my name to something called an "Emergency Custodial Reassignment" while I was sedated and helpless in a hospital bed.
Lex quietly starts gathering their things, closing their laptop with careful deliberation. The casual confidence they'd shown earlier is gone, replaced by something that looks like fear.
"Claire, this is ... a legal reassignment of custody. Emergency basis. Usually used in abuse cases. Or deaths."
"But I'm not dead. And I didn't hurt anyone." The words come out too loud, drawing glances from nearby tables. I lower my voice. "I would never hurt Eva."
Lex looks deeply uncomfortable now, their eyes darting around the coffee shop like they're checking for exits. "You didn't tell me this was about a dead baby."
The words hit me like cold water. I look down at the document again, reading through the legal terminology with new understanding. Emergency custodialreassignment. Transfer protocols. Digital signatures created while the biological mother was under sedation.
"I didn't know it was," I admit.
The silence stretches between us, filled with the weight of implications I'm only beginning to understand. If there was a dead baby, if there was an emergency reassignment, if Adam created documents in my name while I was unconscious ... then everything I've been suspecting, everything I've been afraid to fully acknowledge, might be true.
I save the file to a USB drive with trembling fingers, the small device feeling heavy with the weight of secrets. Lex stands, slinging their laptop bag over their shoulder.
“Wait,” I say, fumbling for my phone. “Can you look at something else?”
I pull up the thread from Mae and tap the attachment link. The same error blinks: File moved or deleted. Lex takes my phone, copies the URL, and works a few keys.
“Owner’s still showing,” they murmur. “Mae Benton. Community moderator. Version history says the original PDF was fine… but there’s a second edit on Sept 3, 12:14 A.M.”
“The night I delivered.”
Lex nods, jaw tight. “Edit wasn’t from Mae’s account. Anonymous user with the link. Then the contents were replaced and the file was trashed.” They glance at me. “The template itself? Totally normal. The timing and the wipe are the part that isn’t.”
“The file’s Mae’s, but that edit wasn’t her,” they add, softer. “Could’ve been anyone with access. Someone covered their tracks.”
"I need to know what else they buried," I say, more to myself than to them.
"Just ... be careful, okay? This feels big. Bigger than medical malpractice or record keeping errors. This feels like something people would go to serious lengths to keep hidden."
After they leave, I sit alone in the coffee shop for another hour, the USB drive burning a hole in my pocket. Around me, normal life continues. Orders are being taken and people are talking about weekend plans.
I open my computer one more time and look through my email receipts. I’m not looking for anything in particular, but when I skip back in time, I suddenly see it. It’s an email receipt from a boutique which says, “Personalized pacifier: GRACIE.” Underneath, I read the gift note:For my future granddaughter, love Mom.
So, it was my mom who had ordered this for me before she even knew I was pregnant or that I would have a baby girl. I remember talking to her about names and wanting to name my daughter after her but call her Gracie, even if it’s a middle name. My eyes start to water and I have to blink away the tears to make them go away.
On the drive home, I take the long way through the subdivision, past the Hendersons barrel cacti and palo verde tree that drops yellow pods like confetti. Sharon’sin her driveway coiling a hose, Buster lolling in the shade.
“Weird favor,” I say, pulling to the curb and stepping out before I can chicken out. “Do you still have your Ring footage from the week we brought Eva home? The day we pulled in?”
She blinks. “Oh—uh—why?”
“I’m trying to figure out something.” My smile feels brittle. “I thought maybe the doorbell caught us.”
Sharon’s mouth does a small, apologetic tilt. “My husband handles all that. He’s big on privacy.” She lowers her voice like the word itself might offend someone. “We don’t really share clips. And I think the plan auto-deletes after two weeks anyway.”
Two weeks. That was weeks ago. “Right,” I say. “Of course.”
She pats Buster’s head too many times, eyes skipping past mine toward her half-closed garage. Not guilt. Boundaries. I know that.
Still, her reaction lands awkwardly. Is she just being private? Or trying to conceal something? “We don’t share clips,” her voice reiterates in my mind. What did she mean by that exactly?
I walk out with the USB in my pocket, carrying it like it's loaded with explosives.
