It was our eldest son, Theo, and behind him was a girl of nineteen I had never seen before. Her name was Mara. She had been at our house for Sunday dinners eleven times over the past year, except she had not, because Theo had introduced her as a friend from his programme and I had barely looked up from the stove. She was the mother. And the reason my name sat beside a ninety-nine point nine percent match was not biological at all. It was a clerical error compounded by a coincidence that took the lab three days to untangle: the comparison sample on file under my name was not mine. It belonged to a woman with my exact name and a birthdate four days apart, a patient at the same hospital, whose daughter had also delivered that night.

The relief did not arrive quickly. It took hours and three phone calls, and by then the real story had already come out in that room. Theo is Wren’s father. Mara had concealed the pregnancy from everyone, and Desmond had known for six weeks. She had gone to him, not to me, because she was frightened of me, which is a sentence I have had to sit with for a long time. Desmond arranged the emergency placement so the baby would come to us rather than to strangers, and he did not tell me because he did not know how, and because he was protecting a nineteen-year-old who had asked him to.