Three sleepless weeks passed before the envelope arrived.
When it finally came, I opened it while standing in my kitchen.
I read one line.
Probability of maternity: 99.99%.
I sank to the floor.
Right there on the kitchen tiles, holding the paper in both hands.
My son had not died.
For twelve years, he had sat three chairs away from me at every family dinner.
Family
And he had called me “Aunt Lauren.”
The next morning, I went over early.
Oliver answered the door.
Twelve years old.
Thin.
Messy hair.
Wearing his usual Yankees jersey.
“Aunt Lauren? Why are you here so early?”
I could not find my voice.
The only thing I could think to say was ridiculous.
“Have you eaten breakfast yet?”
He shook his head.
I walked inside.
