Chapter 4 - A BABY WITH TWO NAMES
My mother died when I was seventeen.
At least, that was what I'd been told.
Her name was Anna Collins.
She worked as a medical records administrator at a small hospital outside Rockford.
She was kind.
Careful.
And extraordinarily protective.
After a car accident on an icy highway, my aunt told me she'd died before the ambulance arrived.
There had been no viewing.
No open casket.
Only a sealed urn and a funeral that felt too small for the woman who'd raised me.
For twelve years, I'd carried her photograph in my wallet.
Now Dominic was telling me someone alive was using her name.
I looked at him.
"That's impossible."
He studied my face.
"Bernie, did you know a woman named Anna Collins?"
I laughed bitterly.
"She was my mother."
The room went silent.
Dominic lowered his phone.
"Your mother?"
"Yes."
He looked toward the hallway.
Then back at me.
"How old were you when she died?"
"Seventeen."
"Cause?"
"Car accident."
His expression darkened.
"Was there a formal identification?"
I stared.
"I don't know. I was a child."
Dominic said nothing.
I felt anger rising.
"Don't turn my mother's death into another of your mysteries."
"I'm not trying to."
"Then explain what you know."
He took a breath.
"The name Anna Collins was used to register a woman at St. Catherine's several weeks after Elena disappeared from the hospital."
My chest tightened.
"That's all?"
"For now."
I covered my face.
The coincidence felt cruel.
I was barely managing the possibility that Oliver's mother was alive.
I couldn't carry the possibility that mine might be too.
The next morning, Rebecca obtained copies of the public records surrounding Anna Collins's death.
The death certificate had been issued.
The accident was documented.
But the available records didn't answer every question about the identification process.
Rebecca was careful.
"This doesn't prove your mother survived. It may simply mean someone later used her identity."
I nodded.
That was enough uncertainty for one day.
Then a different problem emerged.
Oliver's birth record.
The hospital where Elena supposedly delivered him had registered a male infant under the name Nicholas Samuel Farrow.
The record listed the child as deceased.
Yet Oliver was alive.
The documents could not both describe the truth.
Dr. Bell requested the relevant records for independent comparison through the investigation.
The birth hospital's administrator acknowledged that an audit was underway.
And Dominic requested lawful parentage testing to confirm the family relationship.
I agreed to help arrange the process through the appropriate authorities.
But I refused to let Oliver be handed over solely because Dominic recognized Elena's face.
That seemed to irritate him.
Good.
One afternoon, Dominic found me sitting on the floor beside Oliver's play mat.
The little boy was attempting to eat a stuffed giraffe.
Dominic watched him.
"He's determined."
"He gets that from me."
Dominic raised an eyebrow.
"You're not related."
I looked up sharply.
"I know."
He realized his mistake immediately.
"Bernie—"
"No. You're right."
My throat tightened.
"I'm not his mother. I'm not his aunt. I don't have your family name."
Dominic sat down in the chair opposite me.
"I didn't mean that you don't matter."
I looked at Oliver.
"Sometimes I think he won't remember me when he's older."
Dominic was silent.
I continued.
"He was so little when I found him. He cried every time I put him down. Some nights I had to hold him until sunrise."
My voice broke.
"Now he reaches for me whenever he's frightened."
Dominic looked at the baby.
Then back at me.
"Children remember safety in ways adults don't always understand."
I swallowed.
"How would you know?"
His expression changed.
"My brother and I were raised by a father who believed fear was how you taught loyalty."
For the first time, I saw something beneath Dominic's dangerous calm.
A childhood he didn't like remembering.
He continued.
"Samuel was the only person who ever stood between me and our father's anger."
I stared at him.
"That's why you want to find him."
Dominic nodded.
"He's the reason I survived long enough to become this man."
I looked down.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Oliver dropped the giraffe.
Dominic picked it up.
The baby reached toward him.
Dominic froze.
"He's asking for it," I explained.
Very carefully, the most feared man in Chicago handed a stuffed giraffe to his nephew.
Oliver laughed.
Dominic stared at him.
And for the first time since I met him, he smiled without looking dangerous.
That evening, the preliminary family testing returned results consistent with Oliver being closely related to Dominic.
Additional testing and legal confirmation were still required, but it strongly supported Dominic's account.
I sat with the report in my hands.
The baby I'd named Oliver had another name.
Nicholas.
A father.
An uncle.
An entire family history.
I wanted to be happy.
Instead, I cried.
May you like
Because for sixteen weeks, he'd been the only family I had left.
And I was terrified that everyone who belonged to him by blood would eventually tell me I didn't.
