“Kirsten signed everything,” he said.
Kenneth looked at him. “Did she?”
The silence that followed had weight.
Melinda opened her eyes. “Connor.”
“Be quiet,” he snapped.
The baby flinched.
I saw it. So did Melinda. So did Kenneth.
For the first time, anger warmed me from the inside—not wild anger, not messy anger, but something clean and protective.
“Don’t speak like that in front of him,” I said.
Connor laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Don’t tell me how to talk to my son.”
My son.
Again.
Kenneth removed another page. “The storage facility provided copies of authorization forms. Kirsten’s signature appears on documents approving transfer and release.”
I stared at him.
“My signature appears?”
“Yes.”
“But I never signed anything.”
“I know,” Kenneth said.
The room tilted.
I sat down slowly, though I did not remember choosing to move.
Seven years of appointments. Seven years of prayers I did not say out loud because Connor thought prayer was weakness unless he needed something. Seven years of believing there had been nothing left. No possibility. No hidden doorway. No quiet miracle waiting in a freezer somewhere with my name on it.
