My sister Nora and I had always been close.
So when she and her husband, Tom, spent eight years struggling to have a baby, I witnessed every painful moment.
Eventually, she and Tom adopted a little girl named Ellie — five years old, dark curls, enormous brown eyes, the sweetest smile.
Two weeks after the adoption was finalized, Nora knocked on my door looking terrified, an envelope clutched to her chest.
“Where’s Ellie?” I asked.
“Home with Tom. She’s fine.” Her voice broke. “Claire, please. Can we sit down?”
At my kitchen table, she laid out the documents with shaking hands.
“Remember what the agency told us? That nobody could identify Ellie’s biological family?”
I nodded.
“That wasn’t true. Tom and I asked for a review of some missing medical records. There were inconsistencies in her original paperwork. Problems with the newborn identification records.”
My heart began to pound.
