My hands bunch into fists at my sides. Brooke is sitting next to me and our eyes are fixed on my flat screen TV.

The young reporter makes a half-turn to the Mother Care building, looming behind him. He turns back to the camera.

“Ladies and gentlemen, behind me is the place where close to two hundred young mothers, most of them teenagers, were deceived into believing the babies they gave birth to were stillborn. The truth is, Deena Neeson, the owner, and her family, have been running a baby selling business for close to six years. They fooled young mothers into thinking they have found a home. They fed them, dressed them, and even covered their medical expenses, only to drug them during childbirth. When they came to, they were told the devastating news that their babies had died. Soon after, they were pushed out the door to make space for new pregnant mothers.”

I take Brooke’s hand and allow her to hold onto me for comfort and strength.

“You okay?” I ask, although I know the answer.

She gives me a shaky smile. “Ask me again after we talk to your lawyer.”

“He’ll be here soon.” I glance at my watch. Where the hell is he? He said he would be here at 11:00 a.m. He’s fifteen minutes late. Every second feels like an eternity when one is waiting for life-changing news.

The reporter is now interviewing a woman with stringy, caramel hair and mascara running down her cheeks. Several other victims of Mother Care have been interviewed in the past hour. Brooke could have been one of them, but she refused to be interviewed. She’s only interested in one thing, the child she thought she lost.

“You were pregnant at sixteen. Were you going to keep the baby?”

“I was young and far from ready to be a mother, but I was determined to learn . . . to be a good mom. I would never have given up my baby.” Tears glisten on the woman’s pink cheeks.

“You must have been really upset to hear your baby was stillborn.” The same question the reporter had asked the other victims.

“I was devastated. They didn’t even give me the chance to hold her . . . my baby in my arms. They said seeing the corpse would only make it harder for me to let go.” The woman runs a palm across her cheek, smudging the mascara across her milky skin. “They pretended to be good people. They made me feel like part of a family.” She lifts, then drops her hands at her sides. “Sorry, I—I can’t do this.” She walks away from the cameras and collapses into another woman’s arms.

I flick off the TV and sling an arm around Brooke. She leans into me for a few seconds before she gets to her feet, pacing the room, shaking out her hands, trying to get rid of the nervous energy. Fear flickers on her face, the fear of disappointment, more pain.

A dark cloud settles on my mind, dimming my confidence. What if I’m wrong? What if it turns out that the child I saw wasn’t really Eric? I spent so much time trying to convince Brooke that our son is alive. Instincts lie all the time. It would tear her apart to find out her baby really is dead or was sold. I’d never forgive myself.

An ache drives through my heart. I should have waited for the results before getting up her hopes the way I did. I had been so excited, I couldn’t wait to tell her. Now everything could blow up in my face and I might lose her.

Melissa, my housekeeper, walks in with a silver tray and places a pitcher of water on the coffee table.

“Thank you, Melissa. Now, I think you should start your weekend early.”

“Are you sure? I just started.” She straightens her slim frame.

I reach for a crystal water glass. “There’s not much to do around here. Go home. Spend some time with your granddaughter.”

Melissa is in her fifties. She became a grandmother for the first time two months ago. She’s a warm woman with the energy of a horse. Not once during her time working for me did she call in sick. A year and a half.

“Thank you, Mr. LaClaire. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Melissa walks out of the living room, and I fill Brooke’s glass with chilled water. I wish I could offer her more than just water. She’s been with me since 6:00 a.m. but refuses to eat anything. She didn’t even touch the breakfast Melissa had placed in front of her.

“Thanks,” she whispers and raises her glass to her lips. She only takes a sip. She lowers it to the table again. The moment the bottom of the glass touches the table, the doorbell rings.

Melissa, who still hasn’t left, goes to let Fred in.

Fred walks in carrying his shiny, black briefcase.

“You’re late, Fred.” I stand to shake his hand.

“I apologize. I had some things to take care of. I wanted to have all the answers before coming to see you.” He squeezes Brooke’s hand.

“Take a seat, Fred.” I wave toward the opposite couch. “Tell me you have good news.”

Brooke leans forward, her elbows resting on her thighs, hands in a prayer gesture, eyes on Fred.

Fred snaps open his briefcase and pulls out a sheet of paper. He hands it to me, his expression stoic. The guy always carries the same expression, whether he’s happy, pissed off, or in-between.

Brooke draws closer to me and we read the piece of paper together. She jumps to her feet, clutching her chest, panting for breath. She hurries from the room. The door to the downstairs bathroom slams shut, the sound vibrating through the entire house.

My hands calm and controlled, I place the paternity results on the glass table next to the tray and stand. “Excuse me, Fred. I’ll be right back.”

I knock on the bathroom door. She doesn’t answer. The water is running on the other side, but the sound of her sobs still make it through the wooden door. I refrain from knocking again. She needs time to process the information. I lean my back against the door, drawing in ten deep breaths. I push away and take a step toward the hallway. The door opens and she’s standing there, her cheeks glistening, eyes bloodshot. All I can think is that she’s never been more beautiful.

I tug her into my arms, one hand on her back, one buried in the curly locks at the nape of her neck. “It’s all right now,” I whisper into her hair. “Our son is alive.”

She pulls away and gazes up at me, a smile spreading across her face. “You were right. You were so right.” She leans back into me, holding on tight. “It was him.”

“It was.” My own eyes burn with moisture.

We return to the living room hand in hand to find Fred drinking a glass of water. His lips twitch in a smile, his face muscles barely moving. “I’m glad to be the bearer of good news.”

“Thank you, Fred.” I sink back onto the couch, pulling Brooke down with me.

Fred hands Brooke another page and she smiles at him. “What’s this?”

“Proof that you’re the mother. You only saw the paternity results.”

“Oh.” She smiles brightly, and lowers her gaze to the paper at the same time I do. She looks up at me. “We are his parents.”

“You’ll make an amazing mom.” I trace her cheek with a fingertip and give her a soft kiss on the lips, the first since the last time she asked me to walk out of her life.

When we pull back from our intimate celebration, I turn my attention back to Fred. “Where do we go from here, Fred? What are the next steps?”

“Well.” He takes another drink of water. “The next step is to meet your son. I’ve arranged everything.” He snaps his briefcase shut.

“You have?”

“Have I ever let you down?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Never.” I chuckle. “Tell us where to pick him up. We’ll leave now.”

“Just stay where you are. He’s coming to you. Someone from Child Protective Services should be here with him any moment.”

Brooke gasps and rushes to the window facing the driveway, like a child waiting for Santa. Ten minutes later, a white Toyota Corolla pulls into the driveway. Brooke’s hands fly to her mouth before dropping away as she starts to laugh and cry at the same time. We join her, even Fred who hardly ever laughs. She rushes to the door and we follow.

We come to a screeching halt at the top of the steps. The joyous laughter dies the moment a six-year-old with hair the exact same color as Brooke’s emerges from the car, holding on to a worn-out teddy. A woman with salt and pepper hair appears next to him. She whispers into his ear. He nods and takes her hand. Together, they move toward the steps.

Brooke hurries down the steps and she’s about to pull Jack into her arms but stops and puts them behind her body, probably realizing that, to him, she’s still a stranger.

“What’s your name?” he asks her as I join them at the bottom of the steps.

She lowers herself to his level. “I’m Brooke, your new mommy.” She sniffs. “You must be Jack.”

“Jack Neeson,” he corrects and wild grief rips through me. “I already have a mom but she’s in prison. She did something bad. I can stay with you until she comes back.”

Brooke is quiet for a moment, but she soon puts on a brave smile and stretches out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack Neeson. We’d love to have you. You can call me your second Mom.” She looks back at me, hurt evident in her eyes. I wink at her to promise her it’s only a matter of time before he accepts us as his parents. For now, we’ll take what we can get.

“Hi, Jack.” I ruffle his hair. “I’m your second dad. We’re so happy you came to live with us.” This morning, Brooke and I made a decision that if Jack is our son, we would move in together and grow together as a family.

“Okay.” He shakes my hand.

I place an arm around Brooke’s shoulders. We have a long road ahead of us, and Jack still needs time to get to know us, to trust us, to accept us as his real parents. And it will take time for the wounds to heal, but I’m never letting either of them go again.

“Jack, do you think we could give you a welcome hug?” Brooke asks cautiously.

She’s dying to hold him and I pray he doesn’t reject her. He nods his head and walks into our embrace.

“I love you,” Brooke whispers. I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or to Jack. But it doesn’t matter because we are one. If she loves him, she loves me.