Part 2: Before my husband passed away, he asked me to deliver a sealed letter to a woman I'd never met — after she read the first line, she looked at me and asked, "Did he tell you everything?"

Her voice shook.

Claire delivered a baby girl at 2:16 a.m. Our daughter lived for eleven minutes.

The room disappeared.

I heard a sound.

It took me a moment to realize it came from me.

“No.”

Catherine moved toward me.

I stood so fast the letter fell.

“No!”

“Claire—”

“No.”

I backed away.

“My daughter is alive.”

“Emily is alive.”

“Don't say it like that!”

I screamed.

Catherine stopped.

I could not breathe.

A baby.

Eleven minutes.

Mine.

Dead.

And I had spent twenty-nine years believing she grew up in my house.

I bent forward, gripping my knees.

Catherine waited.

Eventually I sank onto the carpet.

She sat across from me.

Not touching.

Good.

I whispered:

“What happened to Rebecca's baby?”

Catherine picked up Zane's letter.

“She was born six hours later.”

I closed my eyes.

A healthy girl.

Rebecca had already arranged to place the baby temporarily in protected foster care while she entered a relocation program.