I sat down with a heaviness in my chest, the weight of the unknown pressing on me. The room seemed to close in as I braced myself for whatever revelation lay in that file. The doctor’s voice was calm, but his eyes were serious. “The baby you found is your grandson, Mrs. Reynolds. Genetically, he is the son of Lewis.”
The words hit me like a cold wave. I had been mourning a son, and now I was told that part of him lived on in this tiny, fragile life. My mind raced, trying to piece together how such a secret could have been kept. Cynthia had never spoken of a pregnancy, never hinted at the possibility. How could she have hidden something so monumental, so life-altering?
The detective took over, explaining that they were investigating why Cynthia had chosen such a drastic action. There was talk of postpartum issues, of stress from the loss of Lewis that had driven her to desperation. But none of it made sense to me. The Cynthia I had known was strong and capable—at least, that was the facade she had shown.
