“That’s impossible. I didn’t go to a hospital that week.”
“I know,” Serena said. “This record isn’t for you.”
A cold thread slid down my spine.
“Then who is it for?”
Serena’s voice lowered.
“A woman named Claire Bennett.”
I stopped breathing.
My mother.
The parking lot blurred beyond the windshield.
“My mother died three years ago,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” Serena replied gently. “But this record suggests she was admitted under private billing arranged by Mercer Holdings.”
“That makes no sense.”
“There’s more. The admission notes mention a confidential consultation regarding guardianship, maternal next-of-kin, and two unborn male fetuses.”
The world narrowed to a single point.
Two unborn male fetuses.
My sons.
My mother had never told me.
Not once.
She had held my hand through the pregnancy. She had cried when she heard two heartbeats. She had painted clouds on the nursery wall of our tiny apartment. She had been there when Ethan was born first and Noah followed six minutes later, furious and red-faced and perfect.
She had never mentioned Vivienne.
She had never mentioned Mercer Holdings.
She had never mentioned a hospital meeting.
“Mara?” Serena asked. “Are you there?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“I think someone tried to pressure your mother too.”
My throat closed.
Outside the car, the world continued as though my foundation had not shifted. A man loaded groceries into his trunk. A woman pushed a stroller. Leaves skittered across the pavement.
In the back seat, Ethan laughed at something Noah said.
My mother had known something.
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