As I sat down, my mind raced with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. The room seemed to close in, the air thick with anticipation. I looked at the doctor, trying to read his expression, but his face was a practiced mask of professionalism.
“Mrs. Reynolds,” he began, his voice steady but gentle, “this child is your granddaughter.”
The words hung in the air, their weight slowly bearing down on me. My granddaughter? Lewis had a child? The shock rippled through me, a mixture of disbelief and an unexpected spark of hope mingling. Yet, it was quickly overshadowed by a surge of anger and confusion. Why hadn’t Cynthia told us? Why had she kept this secret? And, most disturbingly, why had she attempted to dispose of her own child?
