I kept one of the crocheted booties in my purse and left the other beside his clothes. That tiny piece of yarn became the only physical reminder of the son I had lost.
As soon as I could, I left my parents’ home and began searching for Fabian. I contacted adoption agencies, examined records, and hired investigators, but nothing led me to him. For thirty-one years, I continued looking. Eventually, I stopped speaking to my parents because they refused to explain what had really happened.
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Then, at forty-nine, I collapsed at work with severe abdominal pain and was rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery.
The next afternoon, my surgeon came to check on me. As he leaned over my chart, a silver cross slipped out from beneath his collar.
My heart began racing. It was my grandmother’s cross, complete with the tiny nick on one arm.
