“No. You listen. That man does not get to walk out of this room and dictate what you put on your son’s paperwork.”
“Please don’t.”
“You write Owen’s name down right now.”
“Mom.”
“I have lived this story.”
Her voice cracked.
“I know where it ends.”
I knew exactly what she meant.
My father had abandoned her shortly after I was born.
She had signed my paperwork alone.
And ever since then, she saw pieces of him in every man who behaved unexpectedly.
Even James.
Nurse Maeve returned and gently moved the clipboard closer.
Then she left us again.
Mom picked up the pen and handed it to me.
“Write his name.”
My fingers shook.
—
The blank line waited.
My mother’s hand rested on my knee.
I could hear the faint sound of elevators in the hallway.
I had no idea whether the next person through the door would be James—or proof that my marriage had just ended.
My phone buzzed.
A message.
James.
On my way back. Please trust me.
That was all.
Mom read it over my shoulder.
“Trust him?”
Her voice sharpened.
“Olivia, sign the paper. Give the baby your name.”
“Mom.”
“No man disappears on the day his son is born and then tells his wife what she can and can’t write.”
I looked down at Owen.
His tiny mouth opened slightly as he slept.
Mom leaned closer.
“You didn’t see him leave. I did. He was completely calm.”
“Please stop.”
“Men who are hiding things can look very calm.”
Nurse Maeve entered again.
“Still no rush, but if we get the name today, it’ll make the paperwork easier.”
“My husband is coming back,” I said.
She nodded and left.
Mom pressed the pen into my hand.
“Do it.”
I brought the tip toward the line.
And then I stopped.
Because suddenly, several memories came rushing back.
James awake at two in the morning with the laptop.
The envelope from a law firm I had never heard of.
A conversation I overheard in the garage weeks earlier.
James speaking quietly into the phone.
“Her son deserves to know the truth.”
At the time, I thought he was talking about our unborn child.
Now I wasn’t sure.
“Olivia,” Mom said. “Why aren’t you signing?”
I put the pen down.
“I’m waiting.”
She stared at me.
“You’re exhausted. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“I think I’m thinking clearly for the first time today.”
She shook her head.
“If James has done something—”
“If I’m wrong about him, I can be angry later.”
I took a breath.
“But if I write something out of fear or spite before I know what’s happening, I might regret it forever.”
Mom fell silent.
Finally, she sat back.
“You sound like me when I was your age.”
I looked at her.
“Maybe I don’t want to become you after what happened.”
That hurt her.
I could see it.
But she didn’t argue.
The minutes dragged.
Four o’clock passed.
Then 4:30.
My mother stopped talking and began tapping her fingernail against the chair.
At five, Owen stirred and fussed before settling again.
The afternoon light outside the hospital window slowly turned golden.
At 5:43, I heard the elevator down the hallway.
Then footsteps.
Then something else.
The soft squeak of wheels.
A wheelchair.
The door opened.
James stood there.
His eyes were swollen and red.
He looked as though he had been crying for hours.
One hand rested on the handle of a wheelchair.
Sitting in it was a woman I had never seen before.
She looked to be in her sixties.
A gray knitted cap covered her head.
Her hands trembled in her lap.
And she was staring at me with an expression I couldn’t understand.
Mom immediately stood.
James looked at me.
“Olivia. I’m sorry. I know how this looks.”
I raised one hand before my mother could speak.
“Who is she?”
James brought the wheelchair closer.
Then he knelt beside my bed.
“This is Marion.”
I stared at the woman.
James swallowed.
“Before you decide anything about the birth certificate, please let me explain everything.”
Marion lifted her eyes.
They were the same color as James’s.
I looked at Owen.
Then at the blank birth certificate.
“Talk.”
James took my free hand.
His fingers were trembling.
“I was adopted. You know that.”
I nodded.
“What you don’t know is that six weeks ago, I got a DNA match.”
My eyes moved toward Marion.
James continued.
“She’s my biological mother.”
I stared at him.
“She’s been trying to find me for almost thirty years.”
His voice broke.
“And she’s dying.”
Everything inside me seemed to stop.
“Hospice?”
James nodded.
