My baby had not died.
He had cried for someone else.
Taken his first steps somewhere else.
Said “Mama” to someone else.
Broken his first tooth.
Started kindergarten.
Learned to ride a bike.
Had fevers.
Nightmares.
Birthdays.
And I had been alive for every one of them.
Less than an hour away.
That evening, Dana came to my house.
She brought another attorney and a retired investigator.
My hospital records had begun arriving.
At first, they seemed normal.
Emergency cesarean.
Twin pregnancy.
Two live births.
I stopped.
“Two live births?”
Dana nodded.
“There is no death certificate in the hospital chart.”
My entire body went cold.
“What?”
“The second infant was transferred to neonatal care.”
“Stable after respiratory support.”
“There’s no record of death before discharge.”
I stared.
“Then how did Adrian tell me he died?”
Dana turned another page.
“There are several missing sections.”
“Missing?”
“The hospital’s archived chart references a social-work consultation we do not have yet.”
