Something Mark had said after I woke up – something I’d spent eighteen years mistaking for kindness.
We’re keeping both.
***
I’d been lying in bed without my glasses.
Mark was beside me, nothing but a blurry shape.
“Can I see him?”
Mark was nothing but a blurry shape beside my bed. “No.”
“Please. I need to say goodbye.”
He never mentioned adoption to me.
“Rachel, don’t do this to yourself.”
“I’m his mother.”
He kissed my forehead. “Remember him the way you imagined him.”
For eighteen years, I’d thought he was protecting me.
Now I understood why he hadn’t let me see my baby.
I need to say goodbye.
***
“He wouldn’t let me see the son he told me I’d lost.”
Susan looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“Did Mark give my son away?”
