“Did you see the consent?” I asked.

“Only a copy, years later.”

He handed it to me.

A signature appeared below a paragraph relinquishing parental rights.

It looked vaguely like mine at a distance but failed in the details.

The ‘E’ looped differently.

The final ‘s’ in Jenkins had a tail I’d never used.

More important, the document claimed I signed it at 2:14 a.m., a time when I was being treated after complications from childbirth, according to my discharge records.