Chapter 5: The Woman In The Hospital Record
The next morning, I woke up before sunrise.
I couldn’t sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Linda’s hand pushing the cake toward my face.
I saw Daniel standing there.
Silent.
But now there was something else.
A photograph.
A secret.
A missing sister.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my stomach.
Our daughter moved slightly.
A tiny reminder that no matter what happened between adults, she was innocent.
“I’m going to protect you,” I whispered.
At eight in the morning, Daniel received another call from his father.
This time, he answered.
I listened from the kitchen.
“Where are the records?””
A pause.
“No, Dad. I need proof.””
Another pause.
Then Daniel looked at me.
His expression changed.
“He says the hospital records were sealed.””
I walked over.
“Why?””
Daniel covered the phone.
“He says my mother requested it.””
My heart sank.
“Can she do that?””
“Not without a reason.””
The next hour felt unreal.
Daniel called his father back.
His father agreed to meet us.
I expected anger.
I expected blame.
I expected some dramatic confrontation.
Instead, when I saw him, I saw an exhausted older man sitting alone at a coffee shop.
He stood when we approached.
“Daniel.””
My husband stopped.
They stared at each other.
Eleven years of silence between them.
Finally, his father spoke.
“You look like your mother.””
Daniel’s expression hardened.
“That’s not a compliment.””
His father looked down.
“I deserve that.””
We sat.
For a few minutes, nobody spoke.
Then Daniel placed the photo on the table.
“Explain.””
His father sighed.
“Your mother and I had a daughter before you.””
Daniel nodded.
“I know.””
The older man looked surprised.
“She told you?””
“No.””
Daniel’s voice became colder.
“I found out yesterday.””
His father closed his eyes.
“Of course.””
I leaned forward.
“What happened?””
He looked at me.
“My daughter was born sick. Very sick.””
He swallowed.
“Your mother couldn’t accept it.””
Daniel frowned.
“What does that mean?””
“She blamed herself. Then she blamed me.””
His father’s hands shook.
“She wanted another child immediately. She believed having a son would fix everything.””
My stomach tightened.
A son.
The same obsession.
The same words.
Daniel whispered:
“Carry on the family name.””
His father looked at him.
“You heard that?””
“Yesterday.””
A painful silence followed.
Then his father reached into his folder.
“I brought something.””
He placed an old document on the table.
Daniel picked it up.
I watched his eyes move across the page.
Then his face changed.
“What is this?””
His father looked at him.
“Your mother’s request.””
Daniel read the paper again.
Then again.
“What am I looking at?””
His father answered quietly.
“The original hospital report.””
I leaned closer.
“What does it say?””
Daniel didn’t speak.
His hands started shaking.
Finally, he looked at me.
And I knew something was wrong.
“What?””
He swallowed.
“The baby…”
His voice broke.
“The baby wasn’t lost because of medical complications.””
I felt a chill.
“Then why?””
Daniel turned the paper around.
There was a signature.
Linda’s signature.
And underneath it was a statement that made my blood run cold.
A statement saying she had refused a recommended treatment.
Daniel’s father whispered:
“She chose not to continue the care.””
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Then Daniel stood so suddenly the chair scraped backward.
“No.””
His father looked at him sadly.
“I’m sorry.””
Daniel shook his head.
“My mother wouldn’t do that.””
But even he didn’t sound convinced.
Because deep down, he remembered.
He remembered the woman who smashed a cake into his pregnant wife’s face.
The woman who cared more about a family name than a child’s happiness.
Daniel looked at me.
And I saw something I had never seen before.
Doubt.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His face went pale.
“It’s Mom.””
He answered.
“Hello?””
A few seconds passed.
Then his expression changed completely.
“Where are you?””
He stood.
“What do you mean you found it?””
I looked at him.
“Found what?””
Daniel slowly lowered the phone.
May you like
His voice was barely a whisper.
“My sister’s original medical file.””
