The envelope arrived two days later. Inside: the results of a paternity test. Her fingers trembled as she tore it open. She scanned the page once. Then again. A match. 99.99%. Her body buckled. She dropped into a chair, gasping. Her baby. Her son. He had been alive all this time.
Tears surged, uncontrollable and hot. Twenty years of imagining the worst. Of looking into crowds and seeing ghosts. Now the truth was in her hands. Relief tore through her, blinding and sharp. And just beneath it—rage. Unrelenting, volcanic rage. Someone had taken him. Raised him. Called him their own.