Page 55 of The Other Mother
"And now she's dead," I whisper to the empty kitchen.
Or silenced.
Behind me, Eva starts to cry. That soft, insistent wail that means she's waking up hungry and needs me. Needs the woman she thinks is her mother. The woman who might be the only mother she'll ever know, even if I'm not the mother she was born to.
I lift her from the bassinet. She settles against my chest, her tiny fist curling around my finger. This gesture that should feel like love, like belonging, like the most natural thing in the world.
Instead, it feels like evidence of a crime I didn't know I was committing.
The early morning light streams through the nursery window, casting long shadows across the floor. In the distance, I can hear Adam's alarm starting to buzz. Soon he'll wake up, shower, make coffee. Then he’ll head off tothe office to build houses for other families who get to live in the simple, uncomplicated world where children belong to the people who bring them home from the hospital.
But as I stand here holding Eva, feeling her warm weight against my chest, one thought cuts through everything else, if they did this to us, how many other mothers are out there right now, holding children who were never meant to be theirs?
28
THE FILE
Iwait until Adam leaves for his Saturday golf game. The ritual is so predictable I could set my watch by it. Coffee at 6:30. Sports Center until 7:15. Kiss on my forehead at 7:45, club bag slung over his shoulder like armor.
"You sure you're okay?" he asks, same question every week. His hand hovers near Eva's bassinet but doesn't touch her. I've noticed that lately. The hesitation.
"We're fine," I say, bouncing Eva gently. She's been fussy all morning, that high-pitched cry that makes my chest tight. "Have fun."
He pauses at the door. "Maybe we could talk when I get back. About ... everything."
“Yeah sure," I lie.
The garage door rumbles shut. The sound of his engine fades down the street. Eva settles in my arms, finally quiet. Her tiny fist uncurls and wraps around myfinger. Such perfect little nails. I study her face in the morning light streaming through the blinds. The slope of her nose. The way her eyebrows arch slightly when she dreams.
"You look like me," I whisper. "Don't you?"
But even as I say it, doubt creeps in. That nagging feeling that's been growing stronger since I saw the hospital footage. Since Mara died. Since everything started unraveling.
I remember when my mother was dying, how the hospice nurse told me that sometimes families see what they need to see. "Love creates resemblance," she'd said, smoothing my mother's blanket. "The heart makes its own truth."
Maybe that's what I've been doing. Making my own truth.
I carry Eva to her nursery and settle her in the crib. She yawns, stretches, then curls into herself like a flower closing for the night. I watch her chest rise and fall, memorizing the rhythm.
Then I walk to Adam's office.
Inside, everything is exactly as he left it. His laptop sits open on the desk, screen dark but still warm. Golf magazines stacked neatly beside a coffee mug that says "World's Greatest Dad" - a Father's Day gift from his sister before Eva was born.
I hover my hand over the laptop's trackpad. This feels like crossing a line I can't uncross. But Mara is dead, and that flash drive she sent me containedhospital records. I need to know if Adam knows anything.
The screen flickers to life. Password protected, of course. I try Eva's birthday. Nothing. Our anniversary. Nothing. Then, almost as an afterthought, I type: GRACIE.
It works.
My stomach drops. Gracie. The name from the pacifier. Here it is, Adam's laptop password, like it's been important to him all along.
The desktop loads. Work files, golf tournament brackets, photos of Eva that I don't remember him taking. I scan the folders quickly. Most are labeled with project names I don't recognize. But one catches my eye: "Liability."
I click it open.
Inside are dozens of files. PDF scans of legal documents. Email chains with subject lines like "Custodial Transfer Protocol" and "Emergency Assignment Review." My hands start shaking before I even open the first one.
The document that loads makes me sick.
