Instead, he stepped forward and carefully placed the newborn into my arms.
The baby was impossibly small.
Warm.
Sleeping.
I instinctively held the little bundle against my chest.
Then Ethan dropped to his knees beside the battered suitcase.
“Ethan…”
He dragged it closer.
The zipper was damaged, and one corner had been reinforced with silver tape.
His hands trembled as he opened it.
Slowly.
Carefully.
I watched his face instead of the suitcase.
Whatever was inside terrified him.
Finally, he pulled the top open.
I looked down.
And screamed.
Because whatever I had believed about the year Ethan disappeared…
Whatever I thought my husband had done by forcing our son out…
Was only the beginning.
PART 2
Inside the suitcase, nestled between worn clothes and legal documents, was a stack of dark, printed hospital records and a dozen printed photographs—each showing Richard outside an unfamiliar clinic, standing beside a heavily pregnant, pale young woman who couldn’t have been older than nineteen.
“His name wasn’t on my birth certificate either, Mom,” Ethan whispered, his knees pressed hard against the rug. “He didn’t throw me out because I was eighteen. He threw me out because I found her.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. The tiny newborn in my arms stirred, letting out a soft, fragile whimpering sound.
