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 could describe me as confused.

He could point to my medication, my grief, my sleeplessness.

Those facts did not prove that my questions were imaginary.

I did not need to diagnose myself or him to understand that he might use my condition to discredit an account he did not want examined.

“I’m tired,” I said.

“I’m going upstairs.”

He followed.

I lay beside him for the rest of the night without sleeping.