“And who watches the baby?” Mom asked.
“Please. Just until I can arrange something.”
Dad shook his head and held out the pen.
“You sign, or you’re out on the street.”
I signed.
“Give me a month”
My name barely looked like mine.
Anyone reading it would think I’d wanted to, and I couldn’t bear that thought.
***
Later, Mom said Fabian had gone to an adoptive family. She wouldn’t tell me where.
Nobody had even taken a photograph of me holding him. It was like he never existed at all.
I went home to the empty drawer.
She wouldn’t tell me where.
The booties were still in my hospital bag.
I put one in my purse and left the other beside his clothes.
***
As soon as I could, I left home and started searching for my baby.
I contacted agencies, searched records, and hired investigators. One couldn’t match the papers to any placement.
I put one in my purse.
For 31 years, I kept trying.
My parents never changed their story, and eventually, I stopped talking to them altogether.
Fabian’s bootie traveled from purse to purse.
Once, a bottle of nail polish broke in my purse and almost ruined it. I kept it in a little plastic bag after that.
I kept trying.
Some days, I held it before answering a call about another possible lead.
***
Then, at 49, I collapsed at work with terrible stomach pain.
I was rushed into emergency surgery.
The next afternoon, my surgeon checked on me. As he leaned over my chart, a silver cross slipped from his collar.
I saw the nick on one arm, and my heart monitor started bleeping madly.
I collapsed at work.
The doctor frowned.
“Are you okay, ma’am?”
I pointed at the cross. “Where did you get that? I put that cross in my son’s blanket the day he was born.”
His hand went to it.
I pointed at the cross.
“Did they ever tell you what really happened to him?”
“They said he’d been adopted.”
“What was your son’s name?”
“Fabian.”
He went still.
“Fabian.”
“When was he born?”
I gave him the date.
“And the cross…” His fingers found the cross around his neck.
“It has my grandmother’s initials on the back. E.M. The M is crooked, almost touching the edge.”
The color drained from his face.
“And the cross…”
He pulled the chair closer.
“I was that baby. My father raised me.”
“Daniel!?” I struggled to sit upright. “How is that possible? He abandoned us.”
His eyebrows lifted, and he leaned back.
“He’s not the parent who left me…”
“He abandoned us.”
Those words cut deep.
“I never had a choice. I don’t know what Daniel told you, but he was wrong.”
Fabian shook his head.
“You signed papers giving me up. What’s there to be wrong about?”
“I had no choice!”
“He’s not the parent who left me…”
