I turned the silver handle and pushed the door open.

The room smelled of antiseptic and cold, filtered air.

Claire lay on the high bed, her face almost as white as the sheets.

Her dark hair was spread out across the pillow like spilled ink.

As the door clicked shut behind me, her eyelids fluttered and opened.

She looked at me, her gaze shifting immediately to the thick manila envelope in my hand.

A soft, sharp breath escaped her lips.

“You found it,” she whispered.

I walked over to the side of her bed and sat in the vinyl chair.

“I found it,” I said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, tracing a wet line into her hair.

“Why, Claire?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

She closed her eyes tightly, more tears forcing their way past her lashes.

“I couldn’t,” she sobbed, her shoulders shaking under the thin hospital gown.

“You are their mother,” I said, the words heavy in my own throat.