My hand tightened around the phone.
“So someone confused the babies?”
“That appears to be one part of what happened,” the attorney explained. “But it doesn’t account for every failure in the records.”
I swallowed.
“
Then how did they declare my daughter dead?”
“That question is still being investigated.”
“Who verified her identity?”
“We’re requesting those details.”
I sat down.
The possibility of an administrative mistake was horrifying enough.
But the fact that so many years had passed without anyone identifying the discrepancy was almost impossible to comprehend.
The hospital had opened a formal investigation.
I requested every available record connected to Lucy’s birth and reported death.
For the first time in five years, I was no longer willing to accept explanations simply because someone in authority had given them.
I needed to know what had happened.
And why.
While the investigation continued, the three of us met with a counselor who specialized in adoption and complicated family histories.
We discussed how to eventually explain the situation to Ellie.
How to answer her questions honestly.
How to avoid making her feel responsible for the adults’
fear.
And how to ensure she understood that nobody was asking her to stop loving anyone.
We agreed that she would remain in her familiar home with Nora and Tom while the legal questions were addressed.
I continued visiting.
Sometimes, I brought coloring books.
Sometimes, we baked cookies.
Sometimes, Ellie just wanted me to sit beside her while she talked about her day.
I treasured every moment.
There were days when grief and happiness existed together so intensely that I didn’t know which one I was feeling.
I’d found my daughter.
But I’d missed five years of her life.
I hadn’t heard her first word.
Hadn’t seen her first steps.
Hadn’t held her on her birthdays.
And I still didn’t understand how we’d been separated.
Yet when Ellie reached for my hand, I reminded myself that she was here now.
That mattered more than anything.
***
