“I was forty miles away,” I said. I felt a sick, greasy guilt in my stomach. I had lived a comfortable life. Clara had loved me. She had bought me books, paid for my piano lessons, and taken me to the beach every summer.

But every dime of that comfort had been paid for with Patricia’s grief.

We drove back to the hospital together. Patricia sat in the passenger seat of my Chevy, her eyes fixed on the photograph of Maya on the dashboard. She didn’t say a word during the entire drive. She just kept her hand rested on the glove compartment, close to the picture.

At the hospital, the transfusion went smoothly. I watched the dark red blood drip through the clear plastic tube into Maya’s arm. Patricia sat in the vinyl chair next to the bed, holding Maya’s small hand. Maya was still drowsy, but she looked at Patricia’s green eyes and smiled.

“Are you my new doctor?” Maya asked, her voice raspy.

“No, sweetie,” Patricia said softly. She looked at me, then back at Maya. “I’m just an old friend of your mom’s. I brought you some help.”

We didn’t call the police that day. Dr. Vance had died in a nursing home in 2012, long before we ever uncovered his secret. There was no one left to put in handcuffs. The hospital administration launched an internal investigation after our lawyer presented the DNA results and the falsified death certificate, but they mostly offered quiet settlements and polite apologies behind closed doors.

Last week, we had our first Thanksgiving together at my house. It wasn’t a perfect family gathering. It was awkward. Patricia didn’t know where the forks were kept, and my husband spent half the afternoon trying to make polite conversation about the weather.

But toward the end of the evening, Maya went to the piano. She started playing a simple song she’d learned at school. Patricia sat on the edge of the sofa, watching her with those pale green eyes. She looked tired, but she wasn’t crying anymore.

I went into the kitchen to start the dishes. I looked at the old red vinyl wallet of Clara’s that I had kept for so many years. I didn’t throw it away. I just put it in the back drawer behind the dish towels.

You win, and then it’s just a Tuesday again. But as I watched Maya laugh at something Patricia said, I knew we were finally starting to build something real.