Chapter 5 - What My Mother Signed
I spun around.
Daniel stood outside.
Lily’s car seat was in his hand.
“Why did you leave the hospital?”
I held up the photograph.
“Who is Stephen Harper?”
Daniel went still.
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I’ve seen the name. That’s all.”
I shoved the legal memo toward him.
“My father had a brother.”
Daniel stared at the photograph.
“I didn’t know that.”
For once, I believed him.
We returned to the hospital together.
Mom was awake.
When I placed the photograph on her blanket, she closed her eyes.
“Stephen,” she whispered.
“You knew him.”
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
“Your father’s older brother.”
“Why did nobody ever mention him?”
“Because he disappeared from our lives before you were born.”
“Why?”
Mom looked at Daniel.
Then at me.
“Stephen was a fertility researcher.”
I sat.
“He worked at the clinic?”
“The clinic that later became part of Palmetto.”
My skin prickled.
“Did he create the embryo?”
Mom’s lips trembled.
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
But I saw something in her face.
“You do.”
She cried quietly.
“Your father and Stephen hated each other.”
“Why?”
“Because of me.”
The room became still.
Mom looked down.
“I dated Stephen first.”
I stared at her.
“When?”
“In college.”
“Then Dad?”
“Later.”
“Stephen hated him because you chose Dad?”
“It was more complicated.”
“Everything in this family is apparently complicated.”
She accepted the blow.
“Stephen became obsessed with proving Henry had taken everything from him.”
“So he created an embryo using Dad’s sample and my egg?”
“We don’t know.”
“Why my egg?”
Mom took a long breath.
“Because you were Henry’s only child.”
The cruelty of it made sense in a twisted way.
A genetic combination designed to violate boundaries even if nobody ever used the embryo.
A secret laboratory revenge.
Then abandoned in storage.
Margaret may have unknowingly inherited possession of it through a clinic error.
Or Stephen may have placed it there intentionally.
“Was Stephen still alive?”
Mom shook her head.
“He died five years ago.”
Conveniently, every person who could answer for this seemed dead.
I looked at her stomach.
“And you chose to continue the pregnancy after learning this?”
“I was already sixteen weeks when we confirmed the genetics.”
“You could have ended it.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Mom stared at me.
“Because when Dr. Bell showed me the ultrasound, I saw a heartbeat.”
My eyes filled despite myself.
“That doesn’t make this okay.”
“I know.”
“You should have told me.”
“Yes.”
“It was my genetic material.”
“Yes.”
“You took away my choice.”
“Yes.”
There was no defense.
No excuse.
Only admission.
And somehow that made my anger harder to hold.
Mom reached toward me.
I did not take her hand.
“Claire, I was wrong.”
I looked at her.
She continued.
“I told myself I was protecting the baby. Then I told myself I was protecting you. Then I told myself I could wait until after delivery.”
She shook her head.
“But the truth is, I was afraid.”
“Of me?”
“Of losing you.”
I swallowed.
“You almost did.”
“I know.”
Dr. Bell entered.
His expression was serious.
Mom’s blood pressure had climbed again.
Protein levels suggested preeclampsia.
At sixty-eight, with a high-risk pregnancy, every hour mattered.
“We may need to deliver early,” he said.
Mom’s hand went to her stomach.
“Today?”
“Possibly.”
My anger vanished under fear.
“This baby is twenty-eight weeks.”
“Yes.”
“What are the chances?”
“Premature, but viable with neonatal care.”
“And Mom?”
He paused.
“We are concerned about both of them.”
Daniel put a hand on my shoulder.
This time I didn’t move away.
We spent the next four hours watching monitors.
Mom drifted in and out of sleep.
I sat beside her.
At one point she opened her eyes.
“Claire.”
“I’m here.”
“There’s something in my purse.”
“What?”
“A document.”
I found a folded legal form.
It was a pre-birth custody agreement.
My name appeared under Intended Guardian.
I stared at her.
“You planned to give me the baby?”
“If you wanted.”
“What if I didn’t?”
“Then I would raise her.”
Her.
A girl.
My chest tightened.
“You knew?”
“Two months ago.”
I read further.
Mom had waived every parental claim.
Daniel’s name appeared as alternate guardian.
“You signed this without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Mom.”
“I know.”
I almost laughed.
Even her attempt at giving me control had been made without my control.
“I don’t know what I want.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Is that why you did this?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
She looked at me.
“Because the child should never be punished for what Stephen did.”
I stared at her.
“And neither should you.”
That sentence broke something open.
I began crying.
Not loudly.
Just exhausted tears.
Mom reached for my hand.
This time I let her take it.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
“I don’t forgive you yet.”
“I know.”
“But I don’t want you to die.”
She squeezed my fingers.
“I don’t want to die either.”
At six that evening, alarms sounded.
Nurses rushed in.
Mom’s blood pressure surged.
The fetal heart rate dropped.
Dr. Bell entered behind an obstetric surgeon.
“We need to deliver.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
They began moving Mom’s bed.
I followed until a nurse stopped me.
“You can’t come farther until she’s prepped.”
Mom reached toward me.
I grabbed her hand.
“Claire.”
“I’m here.”
“If something happens—”
“Don’t.”
“Listen.”
“No.”
“Please.”
I looked at her.
She whispered, “There’s one more document.”
My stomach dropped.
“What document?”
“In Margaret’s original file.”
“What does it say?”
The nurses pushed her toward the operating-room doors.
Mom’s fingers slipped from mine.
“Daniel knows where it is.”
The doors closed.
I turned.
May you like
Daniel was standing behind me.
And for the first time all day, he looked truly terrified.
