Part 2 of 3

“Do you know me?”

He swallowed.

“I know your mother.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His face tightened. I stepped closer to Nora, making sure she didn’t have to stand alone in the middle of a room full of adult confusion.

“Not here,” I told Adrian.

“Hannah, I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.”

The principal quickly arranged the official photograph. Nora held her award while I stood beside her. Adrian joined us only after a pause, careful not to touch her without permission.

When the camera flashed, Nora whispered to him:

“You can smile. It’s a happy picture.”

He managed a small, uncertain smile.

Afterward, Adrian asked to speak with me. I told him to contact Danielle. As we started to leave, he said he was Nora’s father. I looked at him and answered evenly:

“Being a father takes more than sharing a child’s name.”

Nora stopped beside me.

“Is he my father?”

I crouched so I could meet her eyes.

“Yes.”

She looked back at Adrian.

“Do you want to meet me?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Why?”

He paused before answering.

“Because I want the chance to know you now.”

She studied him, thinking.

“Do you know my favorite color?”

“No.”

“My favorite book?”

“No.”

“I like green, and I love the book about the girl who maps stars. I don’t like frosting because it’s too sweet.”

“I’ll remember,” he said.

Nora took my hand, and we left without looking back.

In the hotel room, she asked whether Adrian had known she was born. I told her I thought he had, though I was no longer certain what he had been told. She asked if she had to see him again, and I said she did not. She asked if she had to call him Dad.

“Absolutely not,” I said. “You can call him whatever feels comfortable.”

That night, Danielle called. Adrian had contacted her six months after I left Minneapolis. He had asked whether I had delivered safely, but he believed the baby had been a boy. He had also been told there had been complications.

I sat beside Nora’s bed, listening to her breathe softly beneath the blanket.

“Why would he think that?” I asked.

Danielle didn’t know. She reminded me that she had followed my instructions not to share information with Adrian unless legally required. He had never filed a request through the courts.

After our call, Adrian sent me a message.

I never knew you had a daughter. I was told the baby had not survived.

I read it several times. Then I asked who had told him.

Your mother.

The answer did not excuse his leaving me in labor, or his choosing Meredith’s room over mine. It did change what I understood about the years that followed.

Adrian said my mother had shown him a hospital form and told him I had asked not to see him. He had believed her. I asked him to send a photograph of the document, and when it arrived, I sent it to Danielle.

The form had been signed by Dr. Kendra Hayes, the obstetrician who delivered Nora. A handwritten note referred to my condition, but the rest of the page was obscured. At the bottom was a notation that the infant’s condition had been given to a designated family representative.

Danielle said she would look into it.

The next morning, she arrived at the hotel with coffee and a folder. She had reviewed my old divorce file and found that Nora’s birth certificate had been registered four days after the birth by someone named Lillian Foster, Meredith’s mother and a patient-services administrator at the hospital.

That alone proved nothing, but then the hospital archive confirmed that Nora’s records had been amended two days after her birth. There was also a restriction on disclosing information to Adrian, requested by a family representative.

The name in the record was my mother, Evelyn Whitaker.

She had asked the hospital to keep Nora’s information from Adrian. Two days after Nora was born, she had told him the baby had not survived.

Danielle and I sat with the document between us, trying to understand how one family could have taken so many decisions out of my hands.

A letter from Meredith soon added another piece. Adrian had found it among his old papers. She had written it two days after Nora’s birth, asking him to stop asking questions about my baby because further inquiries would make things worse for everyone.

Danielle read the note twice.

“We need to talk to Meredith,” she said.