I looked at the envelope in her hands.
“What does any of this have to do with me?”
Susan pulled out an old photograph.
The paper was yellowed around the edges. It showed a young woman standing outside a hospital, holding a baby wrapped in a pale blanket.
The young woman had dark hair and a frightened expression.
The baby was mine.
I knew that face.
Thirty-seven years earlier, I had collapsed on a sidewalk while walking home with my six-month-old son, Michael. I had been exhausted, running a fever, and trying to convince myself that I could manage everything without help.
I remembered the pavement rushing toward me.
I remembered the sound of someone shouting for an ambulance.
I remembered waking in a hospital bed and panicking because I couldn’t see my baby.
A young woman had been there.
She had stayed with Michael, made sure he was safe, and refused to leave until Robert arrived.
