“I was five,” I said. “Lena was two,” Claire replied, her voice hardening. “We weren’t babies.”
“You were children.”
“So was he.”
Dad rubbed both hands over his face. “It wasn’t supposed to happen the way it did.”
“Then tell us how it happened,” I said.
Mom looked at the box.
Inside lay a curled pale-blue hospital bracelet, its printed name barely readable.
Baby Hart.
The bank statement showed a six-hundred-dollar withdrawal from Grandpa’s account dated the same day as the birth certificate.
Beneath the withdrawal was a notation:
Legal and placement expenses — Daniel.
“He paid for this.”
“He helped,” Mom said.
“Why?”
“Because we couldn’t.”
Dad sounded worn. “We were already behind on rent. Your mother had been in the hospital. I was working temporary jobs. We had no savings.”
“You had us,” Claire said.
