“I didn’t.

Not at first.” He glanced at the chart on his lap.

“When you were admitted, I saw your name and date of birth.

My birth mother’s name was in a sealed letter my parents left me.

I thought it was an impossible coincidence.

Then I recognized the name of the town where you were born.”

“Why didn’t you say anything yesterday?”

“Because you were critically ill.

Because a surgeon shouldn’t make that kind of announcement to someone who just came out of anesthesia.

And because I needed to be sure I wasn’t forcing my own story onto a stranger.” He touched the cross.

“I brought this today hoping I might be brave enough to ask.”

I lifted my hand.

He hesitated, then placed his palm in mine.

His fingers were warm and steady, the hands of a man who spent his days keeping other people alive.