The social worker hesitated.
“His biological records are incomplete.”
I frowned.
“Incomplete how?”
“His original birth certificate was amended shortly after birth.”
“Why?”
“We don't know.”
“Where was he born?”
She gave us the name of a hospital.
My heart sank.
It was the same hospital where Claire had died.
I looked at my husband.
He immediately noticed.
“What?”
I couldn't answer.
Because suddenly I remembered something.
Claire hadn't just died at that hospital.
She had given birth there.
Eleven years earlier.
She had been pregnant when she died.
Or at least, that was what I had always believed.
But there was something I had never understood.
Claire had never allowed anyone to discuss the father.
She had been twenty-four.
Unmarried.
Terrified.
And shortly before her death, she had called me.
I could still remember her voice.
“Margaret, if anything happens to me, promise me you'll look after my baby.”
I had promised.
But then Claire died unexpectedly from complications after an emergency surgery.
And the baby died too.
That was what the hospital told us.
At least, that's what we were told.
The funeral had been devastating.
There had been no baby.
No chance to say goodbye.
No explanation beyond a few medical terms I couldn't understand.
And eventually, life moved on.
Or I thought it had.
I looked at Leo.
Eight years old.
Small.
Quiet.
The age matched.
My hands began shaking.
“Where was Leo born?” I asked again.
The social worker repeated the hospital name.
I stood up so quickly the chair scraped across the floor.
My husband grabbed my arm.
“Margaret?”
“I need to make a phone call.”
“To who?”
“I don't know yet.”
But I did.
I called the hospital.
After several transfers, I finally reached medical records.
They couldn't release information without authorization.
But I had enough details to request an old file.
A birth record.
A death record.
Anything.
Hours passed.
Then came the first surprise.
There was no record of a stillborn baby connected to Claire's admission.
None.
Instead, the hospital records showed that a male infant had been born alive.
The name listed was Baby Boy Carter.
Carter was Claire's surname.
I stared at the screen.
My husband stood behind me.
“Alive?”
I nodded.
“What happened to him?”
“I don't know.”
We dug deeper.
The baby had been transferred from the hospital to another facility three days after birth.
The reason was listed as “protective placement.”
There was no further information in the accessible file.
Then we found the date.
The exact date.
Eight years before Leo came to our home.
My husband whispered, “Margaret…”
“I know.”
We contacted the adoption agency again.
This time, I demanded answers.
The social worker looked through Leo's file.
She went pale.
“There is something I wasn't aware of.”
“What?”
She pulled out a sealed document.
“This was added to his file years ago.”
“Who added it?”
“I don't know.”
She opened it.
Inside was a photocopy of a handwritten statement.
I recognized the handwriting immediately.
Claire.
My dead sister had written it.
The document was dated three days before her death.
It said:
“If Margaret ever learns the truth, she will understand why I did this.”
Below that was another sentence.
“I couldn't let him grow up knowing who his father was.”
My husband looked at me.
“Who was the father?”
I had no idea.
Then Leo spoke.
“My dad.”
We both turned toward him.
Leo was standing in the hallway.
He looked frightened.
“What about your dad?” I asked.
“He's the reason I wasn't allowed to go home.”
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?”
Leo looked at the floor.
“My mom said he was dangerous.”
“Your mom?”
“Claire.”
The room went silent.
Leo had never called her anything before.
I crouched in front of him.
“Leo, who told you that name?”
“The lady.”
“What lady?”