ANNY
“The girl I raised is your daughter.”
For thirteen years, strangers have offered me miracles. I have learned to ask for evidence before allowing hope into the room.
This woman already has the ring.
“How did you get it?” I ask.
“Jack took it from the blue box on the night Nikolina was born.”
Oliver wakes at his brother’s name. He sits up beside me, and I put the call on speaker.
“Who are you?” he asks.
The woman draws a breath. “My name is Allison Vega. I was the neonatal transport nurse Jack brought to your house.”
The storm returns in pieces: gray eyes above a mask, careful hands, a pale scar near her thumb.
“You delivered my daughter,” I say.
“I helped deliver her. Then I took her.”
Her admission does not sound like a request for forgiveness.
I leave the bed because my
