My mother’s words echoed in my head: *The clinic. They lied about eighty-seven.*

“Do you have her historical records?” I asked. “From the old county archive?”

“Our hospital system absorbed the old Westside Clinic files ten years ago,” Dr. Sterling said. “They are stored in the basement.”

“I need to see them,” I said. “As her medical proxy, I have the right.”

He looked at me, seeing the desperation in my eyes.

“I will have the records clerk pull the microfiche and print the physical file,” he said. “It will take an hour.”

I walked back to the boys and sat down.

My hands were shaking so hard I had to sit on them to keep them still.

Nineteen eighty-seven was the year before I was born.

My mother had gone to the Westside Clinic, a private facility that catered to the city’s wealthy families.

We weren’t wealthy, but her employer had provided the insurance.

An hour later, a young clerk in a yellow scrub top walked into the waiting area.

She held a thick, yellowed manila folder secured with a red rubber band.