I felt my heart stutter.
“You know who my biological mother is?”
Margaret closed her eyes for a long moment. When she opened them, they were wet.
“I’ve carried this for 28 years,”
she said.
“Every single day, wondering if I did the right thing by staying quiet, wondering if I should have spoken up when it happened.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a worn leather journal. Its pages yellowed with age.
“This is my shift log from March 15th, 1997,”
she said.
“The night you were born.”
She opened it to a flagged page and slid it across the table. I read her cramped handwriting, my blood running cold with every line.
11:47 p.m. Baby girl number one, born to Diane Townsend. Healthy 7 lb 2 oz. 11:58 p.m. Baby girl number two, born to Linda Morrison. Healthy 6b4 o. 12:32 a.m. Incident trainee nurse Carla Hris mixed up infants after bathing. Realized error at 2:15 a.m. Both families had already bonded. 2:45 a.m. Meeting with hospital administrator. Decision made to correct records, not families. Less traumatic for everyone. NDA required for all staff present.
I looked up at Margaret, my hands shaking.
“They knew,”
I whispered.
“They knew that night, and they covered it up.”
“The administrator said it would cause more harm to switch you back,”
Margaret said. Both mothers had already held their babies, fed them, named them.
Margaret’s voice cracked.
“I was 24 years old. They threatened my license, my pension. They made me sign a non-disclosure agreement. I had two kids of my own to feed.”
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