“I lied.”
I felt like someone had punched me.
“You lied about why you came here?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at Lucy.
“Because I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
He swallowed.
“About three months ago, Eleanor’s daughter contacted me.”
“Why?”
“Because she knew about us.”
I stared at him.
“About our foster application?”
“No.”
He paused.
“About our daughter.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t breathe.
“We have three sons.”
“I know.”
“We never had a daughter.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
He looked at me with tears in his eyes.
“Twenty-two years ago, you did.”
Everything inside me went silent.
I had to sit down.
Twenty-two years ago.
I remembered that year.
I’d been pregnant.
Or at least, I’d believed I was.
I had been 30.
We already had two boys.
We’d desperately wanted a girl.
At nine weeks, I had miscarried.
Or that’s what the doctors told me.
