I stared at the wedding portrait hanging on the wall. In the photo, David's smile was so tender.
Six hours.
The same hospital.
My baby was pronounced dead.
Her child was now three years old.
"Lucinda."
"Yeah?"
"Get me that child's birth certificate."
Lucinda paused. "You sure?"
"It's because I'm not sure that I need to see the proof with my own eyes."
I closed my eyes.
Three years.
Three years.
Every year I went to the cemetery. Burned paper offerings. Laid flowers. Talked to a slab of cold stone.
I told my baby that Mommy missed him.
I told my baby that Mommy was sorry, that I'd failed to protect him.
What if that child never died?
Lucinda pulled some strings and got her hands on the medical checkup file for Corinne's son at the community clinic. An oral swab sample was on record.
I went to a separate facility myself. Drew blood, provided samples, and submitted everything for a paternity test.
Results would take five to seven business days.
For those seven days, I cooked, did laundry, and waited for David to come home. Same as always.
He'd been in a good mood lately.
On Wednesday, he came home early for the first time in months.
A bouquet of roses in his arms.