Her eyes opened when I stepped into the room.
“Michael,” she whispered.
“I’m here,” I said, taking her hand.
Tears slid down her temples.
“The envelope…”
“We’ll find it,” I said. “Don’t worry about that now.”
But she shook her head weakly.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
She swallowed.
Then, slowly:
“It wasn’t just about the baby.”
My chest tightened again.
“What do you mean?”
Her fingers curled weakly around mine.
“The test… it showed something else.”
A pause.
Then, quietly:
“Genetics.”
I felt the room shift.
“Genetics?” I repeated.
She nodded faintly.
“There was a condition they were screening for. Rare, but serious.”
I waited.
“But that’s not why your mother took it.”
A cold feeling spread through me.
“Then why?”
Sarah looked at me, her eyes filled with something deeper than fear.
Something closer to dread.
“Because of the second page.”
It took two days to find the envelope.
Not at our house.
Not in Sarah’s purse.
But in my mother’s car.
