The report was one page long. I read the first section twice before the words organized themselves into something I could understand.

Parent-child match. Confidence level: 99.97%.

The maternal line had… my name.

I looked up at Chris. He was watching me read it.

“The hospital listed in Susan’s adoption file,” he said. “You mentioned it once, the night we talked about the baby you gave up. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I was barely listening… until I checked the adoption file again just now.”

I didn’t answer. I already knew.

The maternal line had… my name.

“It’s the same hospital, Krystle,” Chris finished. “The same year. The same month.”

The paper in my hands felt as if it weighed 20 pounds. The room had gone very quiet.

Susan was standing in the hallway. I don’t know how long the three of us stood there without speaking.

It was Susan who moved first. Not toward me, but away, backing into the wall as if she needed something solid behind her. Her face was doing six things at once, and I recognized all of them because I had worn versions of them myself for 15 years.

“She’s been here,” Susan whispered. “She was here the whole time.”

I don’t know how long the three of us stood there without speaking.

“Susan… baby…” Chris started.

“No, Dad! She was here. My mother… she was right here.”

Continued on the next page