“Don’t,” I whispered.
He stopped.
“Don’t tell me she’s ours.”
His face crumpled.
“She’s not.”
I don’t know why those words hurt almost as much as they relieved me.
I stepped closer to the glass.
“Then whose is she?”
James didn’t answer.
“James.”
He swallowed.
“Her mother.”
He looked toward the closed hospital room.
“She died this morning.”
Everything inside me went still.
“What?”
“She died after giving birth.”
I covered my mouth.
James continued, his voice breaking.
“She had no family here. No husband. No parents who could be reached. The social worker asked whether there was anyone she trusted.”
I stared at him.
“And she gave them my name?”
He nodded.
“She gave them yours too.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“She knew about us.”
“How?”
He closed his eyes.
That was when I understood there was something he still hadn’t told me.
Something much bigger.
“How did she know about us, James?”
He didn’t answer.
I grabbed his sleeve.
“How did she know my name?”
He looked at me then.
And I saw something I had never seen in my husband’s face before.
Shame.
“I’ve known her for almost a year.”
The words came out so softly that for a second I wasn’t sure I’d heard them.
“Known who?”
“The baby’s mother.”
My hand fell away from his sleeve.
“What do you mean, you’ve known her?”
“I met her through the hospital.”
“Doing what?”
He looked toward the bassinet.
“I was helping her.”
My heart began beating harder.
“Helping her how?”
James rubbed both hands over his face.
“She was pregnant. She was alone. She was scared. She couldn’t afford the medical care she needed.”
“And you decided to help her?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me?”
“I wanted to.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
I stepped backward.
For eleven years, I had known this man.
I knew the way he drank his coffee. The way he snored when he was exhausted. The way he checked the boys’ doors before going to bed. The way he pretended not to cry during school concerts.
I knew his silences.
Or I thought I did.
“Did you have an affair with her?”
He looked horrified.
“No.”
“Then what aren’t you telling me?”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Then he said,
“She wasn’t a stranger.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who was she?”
James stared at me.
“You’ve seen her.”
The hallway suddenly felt unbearably cold.
“What?”
“Twice.”
I searched his face.
“No.”
“You have.”
“James, stop speaking in riddles.”
He reached into his coat pocket.
His fingers were shaking.
He pulled out a small envelope.
My name was written on the front.
Not my married name.
My maiden name.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
I took it.
“She wrote this for you.”
I didn’t want to open it.
But I did.
There were only four lines.
I know you don’t know me.
But you once told me that every baby deserves to be wanted.
I remembered that.
Please don’t let my daughter grow up believing nobody wanted her.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
“Why would she say that to me?”
James looked at the floor.
“Because you told her.”
“I’ve never met her.”
He shook his head.
“You don’t remember.”
My fingers tightened around the letter.
“Remember what?”
He whispered,
“The night we gave up on having a daughter.”
I stared at him.
“What about that night?”
“You weren’t home.”
My blood ran cold.
“I was at my sister’s.”
“I know.”
“What happened?”
James took a breath.
“Someone came to our house.”
“Who?”
“A sixteen-year-old girl.”
I could hear the hospital machines humming behind the walls.
“She was crying,” he said. “She’d been kicked out of her house after her parents found out she was pregnant.”
I looked at the bassinet.
“No.”
“I gave her money. I brought her to a shelter. I helped her get medical care.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because she begged me not to.”
