Two detectives, whom Martin had contacted immediately, stepped through the open front door. They had been waiting at the end of the driveway, observing. One of them held a folder with the official transfer logs from County General that Martin had managed to flag through a legal injunction years ago during our divorce, which had previously been marked as restricted.

Arthur tried to speak, to explain, but his polite doctor facade was completely gone. He looked small. Pathetic. The handcuffs clicked loudly in the quiet, expensive entryway. I watched as they led him down the stone steps, his cashmere sweater snagging slightly on the doorframe. He didn’t look back at me.

It took nearly a year of intense legal battles, court hearings, and DNA tests. The adoption by his sister was ruled completely fraudulent. It was a messy, painful process, and the story spread through the local news like wildfire. The hospital board was forced to issue a public apology, and several administrators resigned in disgrace.

Toby is 8 now, and we are taking things very slowly. He still lives with his adoptive mother, Arthur’s sister, for now, but we have court-ordered visitation every weekend. He doesn’t call me mom yet. He calls me Ellen. But last Sunday, we were sitting on my back porch, planting tomatoes in small plastic pots.

He looked up at me, his green eyes shining in the afternoon light. “You have a cracked badge in your bag,” he said, pointing to my purse. “Why do you keep it?”

I smiled, wiping some dirt from his cheek. “Because it reminded me to keep looking for you,” I said.

He nodded, satisfied with the answer, and went back to digging in the dirt. We have a long way to go, and the road ahead is completely unwritten. But for the first time in 8 years, the grave is just empty dirt, and my son is sitting right next to me, laughing as the dog tries to eat his gardening glove. I couldn’t ask for a better beginning.