The hospital phoned to say a young boy had named me as his emergency contact. I gave a nervous laugh and replied, “That’s impossible. I’m 32, single, and I don’t have a son.” But when they said he wouldn’t stop asking for me, I got in my car… and the second I stepped into his room, everything in my world came to a halt…
The call came at 11:38 on a Tuesday night. I nearly ignored it—I was in my kitchen in Portland, Oregon, barefoot, worn out, trying to convince myself cereal qualified as dinner. Unknown numbers after ten usually meant spam or a coworker forgetting boundaries. Still, something made me pick up.
“Is this Ms. Nora Ellison?” a woman asked.
“Yes.”
“This is St. Agnes Medical Center. We have a boy here. Your name is listed as his emergency contact.”
I stared at the phone, then pressed it tighter to my ear. “I’m sorry, what?”
“A minor. Male. About eleven years old. His name is Oliver.”
“I don’t have a son,” I said slowly. “I’m thirty-two and single. You must have the wrong Nora Ellison.”
