“A name. Alicia Thompson.”
Miss Porter’s face went pale.
“Mrs. Whitmore…”
“Find it, please.”
They worked in tense silence, pulling out folders and scanning documents. Catherine’s hands shook as she flipped through papers she had tried to forget.
Financial records. Legal documents. Photos she could not bear to look at.
And then Miss Porter found it.
“Here,” she said quietly, holding up a marriage certificate.
Catherine took it with trembling hands.
Marriage Certificate.
State of Michigan.
Robert James Whitmore, age twenty-four, and Alicia Marie Thompson, age twenty.
Date of marriage: August 10th, 2006.
Her breath left her in a rush.
She had known they had gotten married. Robert had told her, had tried to get her to come to the wedding, had begged her to meet Alicia.
And she had refused.
Cut him off completely.
“Keep looking,” Catherine whispered. “Birth certificate, death certificates, everything.”
Miss Porter pulled out another folder. Inside were two certificates paper-clipped together.
The first was a death certificate for Robert James Whitmore.
Date of death: December 15th, 2006.
Cause: blunt force trauma from motor vehicle collision.
Catherine had been at the hospital when they told her. She had identified her son’s body. She had signed papers in a fog of grief.
The second certificate made her stop breathing.
Death Certificate.
State of Michigan.
Name: Alicia Marie Thompson Whitmore.
Age: twenty.
Date of death: December 15th, 2006, 11:47 p.m.
Cause: hemorrhagic shock following emergency cesarean section.
Place: Detroit General Hospital.
December 15th.
The same day Robert died.
Alicia had gone into early labor, stress-induced, the doctors had said. Robert had been rushing her to the hospital when the other driver hit them.
Catherine pressed her hand to her mouth.
She had known Alicia died. Had been told. But she had been so consumed by her own grief over losing Robert that she had barely processed it.
“There’s more,” Miss Porter said softly.
She held out a third certificate.
Catherine took it with shaking hands.
Birth Certificate.
State of Michigan.
Name: Daniel Robert Thompson.
Date of birth: December 15th, 2006, 11:43 p.m.
Mother: Alicia Marie Thompson.
Father: unknown.
Weight: five pounds, two ounces.
Premature.
Notes: Emergency C-section. Mother deceased. Infant transferred to NICU.
Daniel Robert Thompson.
Born four minutes before his mother died.
Catherine’s vision blurred. She could barely breathe.
“Mrs. Whitmore,” Miss Porter’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Should I call someone?”
“No. I need…”
Catherine swallowed hard.
“Is there anything else? Any other documents?”
Miss Porter pulled out a thin folder.
“This is from Child Protective Services.”
Inside was a single form, yellowed with age.
State of Michigan Child Protective Services.
Case number: 2006-124789.
Subject: male infant, Daniel Robert Thompson.
Mother deceased.
Father unknown, deceased.
Next of kin investigation completed: December 20th, 2006.
Paternal grandmother identified: Catherine Anne Whitmore.
Contact made: December 21st, 2006.
Custody offered: yes.
And there at the bottom of the page, in her own handwriting:
I am unable to provide care for the child at this time due to age and professional obligations. I decline custody.
Signature: Catherine A. Whitmore.
Date: December 21st, 2006.
Catherine stared at the signature.
Her signature.
The choice she had made eighteen years ago when she had been drowning in grief and rage and prejudice.
She had stood in that hospital, looking through the glass at a tiny baby fighting for his life, and she had walked away because he was Alicia’s son.
Because he was mixed into a life she had refused to accept.
Because accepting him would mean admitting she had been wrong about everything.
“Oh God,” Catherine whispered. “What have I done?”
Miss Porter sat down across from her.
“Mrs. Whitmore, are you saying…”
“He found my wallet today,” Catherine said, her voice hollow. “A young man, eighteen years old. His name is Daniel Robert Thompson. His mother was Alicia Thompson, who died giving birth to him. He’s been in foster care his entire life.”
She looked up at her assistant.
“It’s him. It’s Robert’s son. My grandson. And today, he found my wallet with $4,500 in it, and he gave it all back. Even though he’s hungry and cold and wearing shoes with holes in them, he gave it all back.”