The diner’s refrigerator unit hummed loudly in the corner, a low, vibrating rattle that vibrated through my shoes.

“I asked for my baby,” Rose said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I screamed for her until my throat was raw.”

A waitress walked past our table, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

She set down a plate of cold toast at the booth behind us, but neither of us looked at her.

“They told me she was gone,” Rose said. “They told me she had been discharged to her legal guardians.”

“We were her legal guardians,” I said, my chest tightening. “We had the court papers. We signed them in the lawyer’s office.”

Rose shook her head slowly.

“There were no court papers, Evelyn,” she said.

I stared at her, waiting for her to correct herself, to tell me she had misunderstood.

“What are you talking about?” I said. “We went through the county agency. We paid the fees.”

“You paid Richard’s friend,” Rose said.

She reached into her worn canvas bag and pulled out a yellowed piece of paper, folded into a tight square.