I thought of a voicemail that Ethan never heard.
And for the first time, I wondered whether hiding my pregnancy had ever truly been my choice at all.
Nearly half an hour passed before Ethan returned.
When he came in, his face told me the answer was worse than confusion.
“What happened?” I asked.
He closed the door behind him.
“My mother is gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“She left the lobby before security could speak with her.”
“Of course she did.”
“There’s more.”
My hand went instinctively toward Maya’s bassinet.
Ethan saw.
“She’s safe,” he said quickly. “Security has her floor flagged. No one gets in without your approval.”
That should have comforted me.
It did not.
“What else?”
He held up a folded paper in a clear plastic sleeve.
“Records pulled the form.”
“And?”
“The signature for Marianne Lewis doesn’t match your aunt’s ID signature on file.”
“Then who signed it?”
“We don’t know yet.”
He handed me the copy.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
There, beneath a block of typed hospital language, was my aunt’s name.
Marianne Lewis.
But the handwriting was not hers.
It was careful. Elegant. Slightly slanted.
