Page 52 of The Other Mother
“Yours wasn’t the only file marked red.”
I didn’t ask her what she meant in the moment. I was too focused on Eva, too rattled by the photo. But now, replaying it, I hear something different in her tone. Likeshe wasn’t just talking about that night. Like she was talking about other nights. Other mothers.
And somehow, I ended up with a signature that isn't mine on a document I don't remember signing, holding a baby that might not be mine, while another mother grieves a child she says was stolen.
The desert highway stretches ahead of me, heat mirages shimmering like false water. In the rearview mirror, I can see the dust cloud kicked up by my car, obscuring everything behind me.
But I can't outrun the question that's been growing in my mind since I saw that photo:
Was that my real baby?
27
NOT EVERYTHING IS LOST
The ping of my phone cuts through the predawn silence. I jolt awake, heart hammering against my ribs. Eva stirs in her bassinet, letting out one of those soft, dreamy sighs that used to comfort me. Now it just reminds me of all the sounds I might have missed, all the moments that belonged to someone else.
The screen glows: 5:23 AM. Unknown number.
Check your mailbox.
That's it. No signature. No explanation. Just five words that make my stomach clench.
I slip out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood. The house feels different in the early morning, like it's holding its breath. Outside the bedroom window, the desert landscape stretches endlessly under a gray sky. The mountains in the distance look like sleeping giants, and our cul-de-sac sits perfectly still. No footsteps on the gravel. No car engines.No signs of life except for the automatic sprinklers whispering across the neighbor's perfect lawn.
I pad to the front door, unlock it slowly. The desert air hits my skin, dry and sharp. It smells like creosote and dust. Sometimes I miss the salt air so much it physically hurts.
The mailbox sits at the end of our stone pathway, sleek black metal that Adam picked because it looked "modern and intentional." Now it feels ominous. I lift the lid with trembling fingers.
It’s empty except for a small padded envelope, unmarked, tucked into the back corner.
Back inside, I lock the door behind me and lean against it. The envelope feels light in my hands, almost weightless. Inside: a flash drive. It’s silver, the kind you can buy at any drugstore for ten dollars.
I glance toward the nursery. Eva hasn't stirred. Adam's still asleep, one arm flung over his face like he's trying to block out the world.
My laptop sits on the kitchen table, still open from last night when I was researching everything I could find about emergency custody transfers. Most of the articles were legal jargon, but one phrase kept appearing: "best interest of the child." I'd stared at those words until they blurred together, wondering who gets to decide what's best.
I plug in the flash drive. My reflection stares back from the black screen, ghostly and hollow-eyed. I look like someone I don't recognize anymore. Someone who'sbeen living in the spaces between truth and lies for so long that I've forgotten which side I belong on.
One file appears:
C-Assignment Footage / Intake Day 4
My finger hovers over the mouse. Once I click, there's no going back to the version of myself who could still pretend everything was normal. The version who could still believe that motherhood was supposed to feel like coming home instead of like stepping into someone else's life.
I click.
The video loads with that grainy, static quality of security footage. Black and white. Time-stamped in blocky digital numbers. It's a hospital lobby, the same one where I remember signing discharge papers. But this isn't discharge. This is something else entirely.
There I am.
Sitting in a wheelchair, slumped forward like a rag doll. My hair hangs in my face, and I'm wearing a hospital gown that's too big, the sleeves swallowing my hands. I look so small. So broken. My face is streaked with tears, and I'm crying in a way that looks silent and desperate, like someone who's already screamed herself hoarse.
A nurse approaches the front desk. Her movements are brisk, efficient. She slides a clipboard across the surface toward me.
I watch myself sign something.
My signature is shaky, childlike. Nothing like thecareful penmanship I've always been proud of. I sign without reading, without looking up, without asking questions. Just my name on a line.
