“At least that is what I was told.”
Rachel stared at me.
Then whispered:
“No.”
I pulled out my phone.
My hands shook so badly that I almost dropped it.
I opened a photograph of Noah at six months old.
Then one at two.
Then four.
Rachel covered her mouth.
“That’s Lucas.”
“No.”
“That’s Noah.”
She started crying.
I said:
“Tell me where you got your son.”
She flinched at the wording.
I regretted it immediately.
“He is your son.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
Rachel nodded, wiping tears.
“He is my son.”
Her voice shook.
“But I think I know why you’re asking.”
Eight years earlier, Rachel had been working as a respiratory therapist at a different hospital across Bellmere.
She and her first husband had spent years trying to adopt.
Their agency placement had fallen through twice.
Then a former patient advocate told Rachel about what she described as an emergency private placement.
