She looked terrified. Her hands were shaking.
“She handed you to Diane too quickly, then practically ran out of the room.”
“Mom,”
Diane said, her voice cracking.
“You never told me this.”
“I tried to investigate,”
Eleanor whispered.
“I called the hospital, asked questions. They stonewalled me, told me everything was normal, all records sealed for privacy.”
Eleanor reached into her purse and pulled out a yellowed piece of paper.
“But I made a copy of your birth record before they locked everything down.”
I looked at the document. Time of birth: 11:47 p.m.
“I gave birth at 11:58,”
my mother said slowly.
“I remember looking at the clock. I remember because the doctor made a joke about almost being a leap day baby.”
Eleven minutes. Something had happened in those 11 minutes.
“There’s a name,”
my grandmother said.
“The head nurse that night. Margaret Sullivan. She retired 10 years ago. I have her address.”
The next morning, I walked into Jean Trust’s Hartford office with three DNA samples. Mine was easy, a cheek swab sealed in a sterile tube. My mother’s was voluntary. She’d given it to me the night before with tears in her eyes and steady hands.
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