I Was Told My Newborn Had Died—Then My Eight-Year-Old Son Asked Why Daddy Had Paid Aunt Rachel to Take the Crying Bundle

He lowered his voice.

“I saw him talking to a lady near the elevators.”

I kept my hand on the bed rather than reaching for him too quickly.

“What did you see?”

“He gave her a thick envelope.”

I wanted to interrupt.

I wanted to tell him an envelope could contain anything, that hospitals were full of people carrying papers, that he had been frightened and might have misunderstood.

Instead, I waited.