My baby had died.
My son.
Our son.
I looked Ethan directly in the eyes.
“He was born at thirty-four weeks.”
Ethan’s lips parted.
“A boy?”
“Yes.”
“What was his name?”
My throat closed.
“Daniel.”
Ethan sat again.
“What happened to Daniel?”
I watched him.
Then I delivered the sentence that changed both our lives.
“Your family’s doctors told me he died.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Until Ethan whispered:
“Doctors?”
I nodded.
“At Caldwell Women’s Pavilion.”
His head snapped up.
The hospital his mother controlled.
The hospital where his uncle chaired the board.
The hospital whose neonatal records Ethan himself could access.
His hand shook as he reached for his phone.
“Hannah… what date was he born?”
I told him.
He searched.
His face changed.
Then changed again.
“What?”
Ethan didn’t answer.
“Ethan.”
His eyes lifted slowly.
“There is no death certificate in our hospital archive.”
My heart began pounding.
