Page 36 of Wolf Dad Energy

One of the first things I learn is that records are easier to find than truth. The second thing I learn is that someone worked very hard to make sure Morrow's records disappeared.

Morrow Valentine exists. That part is easy. School records. Medical history. Adoption paperwork. Everything a normal person should have. Except the details don't line up.

His birth date matches. His location history matches. His adoptive parents match.

But the timeline doesn't.

I pull up the hospital records from 15 years ago. The same hospital where I gave birth. The same hospital where I was told my son died.

I read the entry three times. Then five. My hands begin shaking. Because there is no record of a deceased infant matching the information I was given. No death certificate. No burial record. No follow-up documentation. Nothing.

Just a gap. A hole where my son's life should have ended. I whisper the word before I realize I've said it aloud.

"Morrow."

The room feels too quiet. For 15 years, I believed I lost my child. But someone else lost him first. Someone took him. And someone made sure I never knew.

I open another article from 15 years ago. A local adoption agency announcement. My fingers stop. The agency name catches my attention. I know it. I shouldn't. But I do. Because I remember the building. The waiting room. The paperwork. The conversations. I remember a social worker telling me some people were not meant to have children. I remember being young enough to believe adults always knew what they were doing. I remember losing everything.

I close the article. No. Not yet. I am not ready to go there.

The sound of footsteps makes me look up. Morrow stands in my office doorway.

"You found something."

Not a question.

`I close the laptop slightly.

"You should be sleeping."

"You should be too."

I almost smile. Almost.

"You always this difficult?"

He shrugs.