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 folded it and put it in the bag.
A telephone rang somewhere behind us.
I felt myself tighten, expecting either good news or another delay.
The sound ended, and no one came immediately.
I had to learn that every ordinary noise in a working building was not the next sentence of my life.
The investigator returned a little later with an update.
Some information had been verified.
Other information was still being pursued.