The boy’s eyes were unmistakable.
Our daughter’s eyes.
Jack’s eyes.
“No,” I whispered.
Claire finally spoke.
“Our mother gave Jack up first.”
Her voice shook.
“She kept me for another three years. Then she disappeared.”
I looked at her.
“What do you mean, disappeared?”
Claire hesitated.
“I mean exactly that. She left me with a neighbor and never came back.”
My stomach twisted.
Six months pregnant, exhausted, grieving, surrounded by debt—and now a stranger was standing in my doorway telling me my dead husband had an entire family history he never knew existed.
I wanted to slam the door.
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I wanted to scream.
Instead, I kept reading.
Claire found me through an ancestry database.
Apparently one of the foster homes I lived in kept a sample from an old medical screening. Years later, after some legal changes, parts of those records became available.
She’d been searching for me for almost ten years.
