I pressed my hand to my belly. The life inside me kicked. I thought I would be able to surprise my husband, Nathan, with the news of a baby after losing our first child three years ago, but I was the one surprised.
Back then, our daughter, Gem, was only five when she was diagnosed with a congenital heart disease—something the doctors said came from Nathan’s family line. We waited for a donor for months, and when a heart finally came, we thought it was her chance to live. But the transplant failed. They said it wasn’t a match. Gem died on the table, and all that time, I believed that was the real reason—just a tragedy, just bad luck.
Now I know the truth.
I ran until my legs trembled. I drove straight to St. Isidore’s Hospital—the place that had taken my daughter. Doctor Morales had been the man who told me there had been nothing more to do. Now I found him, and I did not beg. I did not plead. I threatened.
“You tell me everything now,” I said. “Or my brother Reid will do what he does.”