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"Then why didn't you say that?"

Because believing him means accepting something I’ve been avoiding for 15 years. Because if Morrow is telling the truth…

Then everything I thought I knew about my past is wrong. Because if he is my son…

Then someone took him from me. And someone lied.

"I needed time."

He nods.

"Okay."

Again. That patience. That understanding. It shouldn't exist in someone his age.

I step into the attic. Dust floats through the beam of light. Boxes line the walls. Most contain ordinary things.

Old books. Holiday decorations. Tax documents. The boring evidence of a normal life.

Except for one box. The one I never unpacked. The one I have moved from place to place for 15 years.

I know exactly where it is without looking. Morrow watches as I walk toward it.

"What is that?"

I kneel beside the box.

"My past."

The answer sounds dramatic. Unfortunately, it's accurate. I open the lid. Inside are photographs. Letters. A hospital bracelet. Things I have never been brave enough to throw away.

Morrow looks at the contents. Then at me. His expression changes.

"Carys..."

I pull out the photograph on top. The one I always told myself I kept because it was the only proof I had of that time.

A young woman. Me. Twenty years old. Standing outside a hospital. Holding a newborn baby. My son?

The picture trembles slightly in my hand. Because I haven't looked at it in years. Not properly. Not really.

"That baby..." Morrow's voice catches. "Was that me?"

"Not sure."

"But you think it was."

“I think someone took something from me. I just don't know what."

"15 years ago, something happened. Something important."

My fingers tighten around the edges of the picture.

"I remember being at a hospital. I remember being scared. I remember someone telling me everything was over."

The room feels colder.

"But there are pieces missing."