I was only eighteen when my parents pressured me into giving up my newborn son. For thirty-one years, I searched for him, never knowing where he’d been taken.
Then, at forty-nine, I woke up in a hospital after emergency surgery.
The surgeon who had saved my life entered my room, and as he leaned over to examine my chart, a small silver cross slipped from beneath his shirt.
My heart nearly stopped.
I recognized that necklace immediately.
It was the same cross I’d hidden inside my baby’s blanket on the day he was born.
« Where did you get that? » I whispered. « That belonged to my son. »
The doctor froze, his fingers closing around the necklace.
Then he pulled a chair beside my bed and asked something I never expected.
« Did your family ever tell you what really happened to your baby? »
Thirty-One Years Earlier
Thirty-one years earlier, I was an eighteen-year-old girl who had just graduated from high school.
