Chapter 11 - THE ACCUSATION THAT COULD DESTROY US|
The investigator's email was brief, but its contents were devastating.
Rebecca claimed that I had been aware of the identification problem and had asked her to make an unofficial correction. She suggested that I had later forgotten the conversation and was now blaming her because I wanted to punish Michael.
For several minutes, I simply stared at the screen.
Ethan read it over my shoulder.
“She said you did it?”
“Yes.”
Noah shook his head.
“She knows that's not true.”
“I know.”
But knowing the truth and proving it were different things.
The hospital's legal department requested another meeting. I brought the letters I had kept, the old medical documents, and the notebook that recorded the first thirteen years of the boys' lives.
The investigator asked me to describe the night of the delivery.
I remembered the pain, the bright lights, the emergency transfer, and the moment a nurse placed two tiny babies beside me.
I remembered asking about the bracelet.
I remembered being told not to worry.
I also remembered Michael standing near the window, holding one of the babies.
He had been smiling.
It was one of the last happy moments we shared.
“Did you ever ask Rebecca to change the records?” the investigator asked.
“No.”
“Did you know her at the time?”
“I knew her as a hospital employee. I did not know she was involved with my husband.”
“Did you have any reason to request a change?”
“Absolutely not.”
The investigator nodded and showed me Rebecca's statement.
“She says you were upset because the baby delivered first was not the baby you expected.”
“That is a lie.”
“Can you explain why?”
I looked at him.
“Because I had no expectation about which child would be born first. I was in labor. I was frightened. I wanted my babies alive.”
The investigator wrote something down.
Then he asked whether I had retained any original documents from the hospital.
I remembered a small envelope in my old filing cabinet.
Inside was a hospital bracelet.
I had kept it because it had fallen into my overnight bag when we were discharged. I had never thrown it away.
The next morning, I brought it to the hospital.
The bracelet contained a handwritten number that did not appear on the official discharge paperwork.
The investigator examined it carefully.
“This could be important.”
They sent it for testing and comparison with the archived records.
Meanwhile, Michael confronted Rebecca through their attorney.
He demanded that she stop making false accusations.
Her response was a letter accusing him of abandoning her son emotionally by spending time with the twins.
Michael showed me the letter.
“She still thinks this is about winning.”
“No,” I said. “She thinks it is about control.”
He looked at me.
“I don't know how I became someone who let this happen.”
“You became someone who kept choosing the easiest explanation.”
He nodded.
“I did.”
A few days later, the hospital called.
The bracelet I had saved matched the handwritten number in the original nursing report.
It also contradicted Rebecca's official correction.
The investigators now had physical evidence that the records had been altered.
But the final finding was still pending.
That evening, Noah came into my room.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“If the test says we aren't biologically yours, does that mean we should go live with Catherine?”
I sat up.
“No. Nobody is taking you anywhere.”
“I know. But what if she wants us?”
“Then we talk. You get to decide what kind of relationship you want with her.”
Noah looked uncertain.
“What if I want to know her, but I don't want to stop being your son?”
I pulled him into a hug.
“You never have to stop being my son.”
He rested his head against my shoulder.
“I don't think I could.”
“Then don't.”
At the doorway, Ethan stood listening.
He entered and sat beside us.
“We should meet Catherine again,” he said. “Not because we're being moved. Because she deserves a chance to know us.”
I smiled.
“That sounds fair.”
For the first time since the DNA results, I felt that we were moving toward something instead of simply losing something.
Then my phone rang.
It was Catherine.
She was crying.
“Laura,” she said, “the hospital found the missing verification page.”
I held my breath.
“And it has a signature.”
“Whose?”
May you like
Catherine whispered the name.
“Michael's.”
