“That’s the day she found out what she was having,” Parker says wistfully.

She flips to the next page for me because I’m shaking so fucking hard I can’t seem to get my hands to cooperate.

The next picture takes my breath away and another sob makes its way out of my mouth.

Olivia is standing in this very room with a paintbrush in her hands, dripping with blue paint. One finger of her other hand is pointing to her stomach where there is an obvious bump sticking out against her tight shirt. Her face is lit up with a huge smile. Above the picture, in Olivia’s flowing handwriting are the words ‘It’s a boy!’

I choke on my sobs as Parker turns the pages for me, one after another of Olivia, her stomach growing bigger in each photo. There’s a picture of her and Parker putting together the crib, one of her and Garrett sitting on the couch in their home, Garrett holding up a bottle of beer and Olivia holding up a glass of milk, one of Olivia sitting in the rocking chair in the corner with her hands resting on her basketball sized stomach, her eyes staring down at it with a soft smile on her face. This is the one that cuts me right in half. I bring my hand up to the page and trace my finger over her stomach.

“She hated herself every day for being so scared in the beginning,” Parker says. “The first time she felt him kick, all her fears disappeared. You always knew when he was moving around in there because she’d get this sappy, faraway look in her eyes while she held her hands against her stomach.”

Parker chuckles at the memory and I wish I could laugh with her, but nothing about this is funny, nothing about this is happy or good. The things I said to her… the things I accused her of… the way I took her against that fucking wall like she was nothing to me…

Jesus Christ, what have I done?

“I don’t understand. I saw the medical report for the abortion. I saw the cashed check,” I mumble, watching as a tear splashes down on the picture, blurring Olivia’s face.

“You mean that check?” Parker asks, pointing at the wall over the crib.

My eyes follow her finger and I hand off the photo album before walking forward, stopping when I reach the bed where my son should be sleeping. Resting my hands on the railing of the crib, I try to make sense of what the fuck I’m seeing.

In a black frame, hanging on the wall over the crib is the check my mother showed me earlier. This one isn’t a photocopy though; this is the real thing with original handwriting in blue ink.

“She wanted to rip it up into little pieces and mail it back to your mother, but I wouldn’t let her. I told her that damn check is a reminder of just how much better she is than that woman. I bought a frame and hung it up for her.”

Running my hands through my hair, I turn and start pacing the floor. “The medical report. How the fuck could she fake that? Three different doctors signed off on that Goddamn report. THREE doctors, Parker!”

I realize I’m yelling, but I don’t care. My entire life has been turned ass over teakettle twice today, I feel like I’m going insane and I don’t know what the fuck to believe anymore.

Parker calmly flips to the very last page in the photo album, pulling out a folded piece of paper and handing it to me. I snatch it out of her hands and open it up. “Did the report your mother give you look anything like this?”

The bottom-half of the report is exactly the same, with the same three doctors’ signatures, but the top part is completely different. I read the information written in the middle of the page out loud.

“Pre-term labor brought on by unforeseen circumstances at twenty-eight weeks gestation. Terbutaline treatment to stop contractions unsuccessful. Fetal ultrasound concluded underdeveloped lung tissue. Antenatal Corticosteroids for fetal lung development immediately administered. Labor progressed rapidly. Delivery occurred at 19:27.”

It’s so quiet in the room you could hear a pin drop. I hate the quiet. It gives me too much time to think, to process and to hate myself.

“She was having a little trouble with preeclampsia, high blood pressure, and her OB told her to take a few days off of work, but you know how she is. She’s blamed herself every single day since. Even when we had proof that someone spiked her tea with a drug that induces labor, I could see it in her eyes that she still hadn’t forgiven herself.”

I close my eyes, the report crumpling in my clenched fist.

“My mother,” I whisper.

“We believe so,” Parker replies. “Olivia had a meeting with her that morning and your mom pushed a cup of herbal tea on her. Five minutes later, she was in pre-term labor. The doctors managed to slow it down and we actually thought for a while that she was in the clear. Olivia was completely exhausted after that ordeal, but she remembers seeing your mother in the doorway to her room when she was trying to rest. Almost immediately afterwards, there was another spike in her contractions, and the doctors weren’t able to stop them the second time. I broke into the hospital a while back, got the records and gave Olivia the report tonight. It showed your mother’s I.D. being used to take out the medication needed to induce labor right before she met with her that morning. It also showed her entering the maternity floor right before Olivia’s contractions started for a second time. Obviously, she fudged the reports on her end and made it look like Olivia took out the Pitocin and administered it to herself. A few days after the baby was born, HR came into her room and told her they wouldn’t press charges if she left quietly. She was so upset and exhausted that she didn’t even care about fighting with them.”