“My mother took care of my wife for four days after she gave birth. When I came back, my baby was burning with fever, and my wife whispered, ‘They wouldn’t let me call you.’ Then the real reason behind all the family hatred came to light.”

CHAPTER 1: THE WEIGHT OF BLOOD

“If your wife dies, at least she won’t separate you from your real family anymore.”

My mother dropped those words into the air as if she were commenting on the weather, all while my son, just seven days old, was burning with fever in my arms in the sterile, smelling of bleach office of a doctor.

My name is Mark Evans, and I live in a drafty, rented apartment in a quiet corner of Albuquerque, where I work as a warehouse manager for a regional construction firm.

My wife, Amy, has always been the kind of woman who says sorry even when someone else bumps into her, a soft, quiet soul who wouldn’t know how to raise her voice if her life depended on it.

We had welcomed our first child, little Sam, just a week before that nightmare began.

I can still see her face in that hospital bed, pale and slick with sweat, her hair stuck to her forehead in damp strands, yet she was smiling at our baby as if she were holding the entire universe against her chest.