Chapter 3 - The Birth Certificate
I demanded answers immediately.
I got none.
Helen called Lily confused.
Dad called the entire morning traumatic.
Eric took his daughter home after police instructed him not to discuss the incident with her.
Vanessa still hadn’t appeared at the hospital.
Officer Daniel Reyes arrived instead.
He already knew about the text message.
Now he wanted every family communication preserved.
He also wanted to know whether I had Emma’s birth records.
“Of course.”
Or I thought I did.
Emma had been born at St. Matthew’s Medical Center four years earlier.
Emergency C-section.
Seven pounds, one ounce.
Dark hair.
A cry so loud the anesthesiologist joked she was already demanding breakfast.
I remembered everything.
How could anybody suggest she wasn’t mine?
Yet Lily’s words stayed in my head.
Aunt Rachel was never supposed to find out who Emma really is.
I opened the hospital portal.
Emma’s electronic birth certificate appeared normal.
Mother:
Rachel Morgan.
Father:
Daniel Morgan.
My late husband.
Daniel had died in a construction accident when Emma was eighteen months old.
The certificate should have ended the mystery.
It didn’t.
Officer Reyes asked:
“Do you have the original?”
At home.
Inside a blue file box.
I sent my neighbor, Kara, to retrieve it.
Forty minutes later, she called.
“Rachel, the box is open.”
“What?”
“Someone’s been through it.”
My hands began shaking.
“Is Emma’s certificate there?”
“No.”
Police went to my house.
No forced entry.
Nothing else missing.
Then I remembered who still had an emergency key.
Mom.
Dad.
Vanessa.
At 4:10 p.m., Denise returned with another piece.
My mother had tried to access Emma’s medical records from the hospital lobby.
She claimed she needed them because she was “family.”
Staff refused.
Why would Mom suddenly want birth records?
Then Officer Reyes received a call.
He stepped into the hallway.
When he returned, his expression had changed.
“Rachel, your sister has retained an attorney.”
“For assaulting a four-year-old?”
“She’s claiming it was accidental.”
“It wasn’t.”
“We’re investigating.”
He hesitated.
“She also filed something else.”
“What?”
“A petition for emergency temporary guardianship.”
I stared.
“Of Emma?”
“Yes.”
I laughed because the alternative was screaming.
“Vanessa attacked my daughter and now wants custody?”
“She claims Emma is in danger with you.”
“What danger?”
He handed me a copy.
The petition alleged that I had “fraudulently concealed the child’s identity and parentage.”
My vision blurred.
Then I saw the attached document.
A laboratory report.
Four years old.
Names:
Vanessa Cole.
Daniel Morgan.
Child specimen: Female Infant B.
Result:
99.98% probability of maternity for Vanessa.
I couldn’t breathe.
“That’s fake.”
Officer Reyes didn’t argue.
“We’ll verify it.”
Emma stirred inside the room.
I looked through the glass at the little girl I had carried, fed, bathed, comforted and buried my husband beside.
Then I noticed something on the lab report.
Collection date.
Two days after Emma was born.
Witness signature:
May you like
Helen Carter.
My mother.
