Chapter 3 — The Birthmark
I didn't tell Daniel about the message.
That was the first decision I made that morning.
The second was even more important.
I wasn't going to St. Mary's alone.
The message had told me to come alone.
That was exactly why I wouldn't.
People who told you to come alone usually wanted something.
Fear.
Silence.
Control.
Daniel had used all three on me for months.
I wasn't going to let a stranger do the same.
At seven in the morning, I called my attorney.
“I received another message.”
“I assumed you might.”
I sent her a screenshot.
She read it.
“Don't reply.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good.”
“I want to go to St. Mary's.”
“So do I.”
“I'll meet you there.”
There was a pause.
“Jennifer?”
“Yes?”
“Bring Lily.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because if we're going to examine the hospital records, I want to make sure the information we receive corresponds with the records connected to your daughter.”
My stomach tightened.
I looked toward the bassinet.
Lily was awake.
She was staring at the ceiling as if nothing in the world had changed.
For her, it hadn't.
She was still my baby.
She didn't know about Daniel.
She didn't know about Chloe.
She didn't know about the photograph.
She didn't know that her tiny birthmark had turned my entire understanding of her first night of life upside down.
I lifted her from the bassinet.
She immediately curled against my chest.
I kissed her forehead.
“No matter what happens,” I whispered, “you're my daughter.”
I said it more for myself than for her.
Because there was something I hadn't admitted to anyone.
Not even my attorney.
The birthmark had always bothered me.
Not because it was dangerous.
The pediatrician had told me it was harmless.
It was simply a small reddish patch beneath Lily's left ear.
But I remembered seeing it for the first time.
The morning after she was born.
I had been exhausted.
Half awake.
A nurse had brought Lily to me.
I remembered staring at her tiny face.
Then I had noticed the mark.
“What's that?”
The nurse had smiled.
“It's just a birthmark.”
I had touched it gently.
“She's perfect.”
I remembered that.
I remembered everything about Lily.
Her face.
Her smell.
Her fingers.
The way she cried.
The way I had felt when they placed her against my chest.
What I didn't remember was everything that happened before that moment.
There were gaps.
Small gaps.
I had always blamed exhaustion.
Medication.
Pain.
Childbirth.
Now I wondered whether those gaps were something else.
At nine-thirty, I arrived at St. Mary's.
My attorney was waiting outside.
She carried a leather folder.
“You look exhausted.”
“I didn't sleep.”
“Neither did I.”
We walked inside.
The hospital smelled exactly as I remembered.
Antiseptic.
Coffee.
Something faintly metallic.
For a moment, I was back in that room three months earlier.
I could hear the machines.
The nurses.
Daniel's voice.
I stopped walking.
My attorney looked at me.
“Jennifer?”
“I remember this hallway.”
She waited.
“I was here.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I looked down the corridor.
“I remember Daniel saying he would never leave me.”
My attorney's expression hardened.
“Let's find out whether he was telling the truth.”
We went to the records department first.
The clerk checked my identification.
Then my daughter's birth certificate.
Then the request from my attorney.
She frowned.
“There are some records we need to retrieve from archives.”
“How long?”
“About an hour.”
My attorney looked at me.
“That's fine.”
It wasn't.
I wanted answers immediately.
But I had learned something during the last four months.
The truth didn't become more truthful just because you demanded it faster.
So we waited.
At 10:18, a woman entered the room.
She was in her sixties.
Gray hair.
Small glasses.
A hospital badge hanging from her neck.
She looked at me.
Then at my daughter.
Her expression changed.
“You're Jennifer Carter.”
I nodded.
“Yes.”
She looked at Lily.
“That's your daughter?”
“Yes.”
The woman swallowed.
“My name is Margaret.”
My heart began pounding.
“Nurse Margaret?”
She nodded.
My attorney stood.
“Were you working here the night Jennifer gave birth?”
“Yes.”
“All night?”
“Yes.”
I looked at her.
“You remember me?”
Margaret's eyes stayed on Lily.
“I remember you.”
“Do you remember Daniel?”
Her expression tightened.
“Yes.”
“Did he leave my room?”
Margaret hesitated.
“I can't discuss another patient's information.”
“I'm not asking about another patient.”
I leaned forward.
“I'm asking about my husband.”
Margaret looked at me.
“He wasn't in your room the entire night.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“He left.”
“How long?”
“I don't remember.”
“You told me you remembered.”
“I remember him being there.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Margaret looked uncomfortable.
My attorney stepped in.
“Mrs. Carter is entitled to know who had access to her infant during the hours after delivery.”
Margaret looked at Lily again.
Then she said quietly:
“There was confusion that night.”
My heart stopped.
“What kind of confusion?”
“The nursery was unusually busy.”
“Why?”
“We had multiple deliveries.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
I looked at my attorney.
“Four babies?”
“Yes.”
“Girls?”
Margaret nodded.
“Two girls.”
My stomach turned.
“Who were the mothers?”
Margaret looked down.
“I shouldn't.”
“Please.”
She sighed.
“One was you.”
“And the other?”
“Chloe.”
The room went silent.
My attorney slowly opened her folder.
“Were Jennifer and Chloe in the same maternity wing?”
“Yes.”
“Same nursery?”
“Yes.”
My fingers tightened around Lily's blanket.
“Did the babies ever get mixed up?”
Margaret looked at me.
“No.”
The answer was too quick.
I noticed.
“So there was no mix-up?”
“No.”
“Then why did you say there was confusion?”
Margaret looked away.
“I said the night was busy.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
I leaned closer.
“Did you see Daniel enter the nursery?”
Margaret's face went pale.
“Yes.”
“When?”
She took a breath.
“After two-thirty in the morning.”
My heart began pounding.
“Why?”
“He said he was looking for his wife.”
I almost laughed.
“My room wasn't near the nursery?”
“No.”
“So why was he there?”
“I don't know.”
“What did he do?”
“I don't know.”
“You saw him.”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened?”
Margaret hesitated.
“He spoke to another nurse.”
“Which nurse?”
“I don't remember her name.”
“Can you describe her?”
Margaret looked toward the ceiling.
“Short hair. Blonde. Maybe in her forties.”
My attorney wrote something down.
“Did she work that shift?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“It was three months ago.”
I stood.
“Mrs. Carter—”
“No.”
I looked at Margaret.
“You remember Daniel.”
She nodded.
“You remember Chloe.”
Another nod.
“You remember confusion.”
A pause.
“And you remember my husband entering the nursery.”
“Yes.”
“Then please don't tell me you don't remember anything.”
Margaret's eyes filled with something I couldn't identify.
Guilt.
Maybe fear.
Finally, she whispered:
“He asked about your baby.”
My blood ran cold.
“My baby?”
“Yes.”
“What did he ask?”
Margaret lowered her voice.
“He asked which bassinet was yours.”
The room seemed to tilt.
My attorney stopped writing.
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him I couldn't give him that information.”
“Why?”
“Because only staff were supposed to handle the babies.”
I stared at her.
“So what did he do?”
“He left.”
“Immediately?”