I pressed my palms to my face, trying to breathe.
Memories flooded in — Irene crying at night, the distance between us, the way she’d held Sophie so tightly in the hospital. It was possible. Too possible.
“Can we find out?” I asked finally. “If they’re related?”
“Yes,” Wendy said. “It’ll take time, but we can try.”
A week later, I booked a flight to Dallas. Sophie came with me, clutching her stuffed bunny, asking questions I couldn’t answer. At the hospital, I told the nurse I was looking for records from seven years ago — anything related to Irene’s delivery.
The nurse frowned, scanning the old database. “A lot of our archives are in storage, but give me a minute.”
Minutes turned into hours. Sophie fell asleep in the waiting area, her small hand resting on my arm.
