My mother had warned me.

She had told me that no one could love our baby the way she could.

She had told me Megan wasn’t strong enough.

I pulled the blue scrub pants on, my foot snagging in the leg hole, nearly making me fall.

I leaned against the cold tile wall to steady myself.

My phone, sitting in the pocket of my jeans on the bench, began to vibrate.

The low hum rattled against the wood.

I froze.

I slowly reached down and picked up the phone.

The screen lit up the dim changing room.

It was an incoming call from a number I didn’t recognize.

A local Chicago area code.

I pressed the phone to my ear, my breath catching in my throat.

“Jake?”

It wasn’t my mother’s voice.

It was a voice I hadn’t heard in years, low and strained.

“Who is this?” I asked, my voice cracking.

“It’s Marcus,” the voice said. “Your mother’s brother.”

My uncle. The one who had cut ties with her a decade ago.

“Why are you calling me?” I asked, looking toward the door.