Eli planted himself between Luke and the bassinet...

A forensic interviewer spoke with Eli the next morning.

I could not sit in the room.

Neither could Luke.

A camera recorded the interview while a child advocate used open questions and allowed long silences.

Eli described waking in the family lounge after Luke told him June needed routine testing. He followed because he wanted to see the newborn screening machine.

He saw Luke pushing June’s bassinet toward a service alcove.

A woman in scrubs opened Rebecca’s room.

Luke entered, came out with Ava, and moved both blankets.

“What did your father say?” the interviewer asked.

“He said the hospital made a mistake.”

“How did he know?”

“He had a paper.”

“What kind of paper?”

“Numbers. Blue and green numbers.”

“Did he tell you what they meant?”

“He said they showed which baby was ours.”

My son had carried that sentence alone for several minutes before he screamed.

Luke’s attorney attacked the interview immediately. He argued Eli was exhausted, protective of me, and jealous of the attention June received.

That accusation hurt Eli more than the event itself.

“I wanted a sister,” he told the hospital psychologist. “Why does Dad keep saying I didn’t?”

The psychologist advised that Luke have no unsupervised contact with him until a family court reviewed the situation.

I agreed.

Then guilt arrived.

Luke was Eli’s father too. The man who taught him to ride a bicycle had now instructed strangers to distrust his memory.

Child protection opened a temporary safety plan. June could remain with me after discharge if I lived somewhere Luke could not access.

My C-section recovery made moving difficult.

Rebecca offered a solution no one expected.

“My sister owns the apartment above mine,” she said. “It is empty.”

We had known each other for less than a day.

Our babies’ bands had been opened by the same man.

“I can’t impose on you.”

“You’re not. I need to know where Ava is safe too.”

The hospital social worker arranged inspections, locks, and temporary support.

Rebecca was a single mother. She had used donor sperm after surgery left her with one viable embryo. Ava was supposed to be the last chance she would ever have to carry a biological child.

That sentence stayed with me.

At discharge, Camille scanned June three separate times.

A hospital officer escorted us to Rebecca’s building.

Luke waited across the street despite the no-contact instruction.

He did not approach.

He held up a folder.

On the cover, I saw the logo for Northbridge Fertility.

Then he called Rachel Sloan, the attorney I had hired that morning.