bracelet lay exactly where I’d left it.
The plastic had yellowed slightly.
But her name was still clearly visible.
I carried it into the kitchen and placed it beside the genetic report.
Two pieces of evidence.
Two entirely different stories.
One said my daughter had died shortly after birth.
The other suggested she might be alive.
I sat there for hours.
Every memory from the hospital returned.
The nurses.
The doctor’s expression.
The tiny hand moving beside Lucy’s face.
The moment someone told me she hadn’t survived.
Had there been
