Marlene’s hands trembled as she gripped the car door. “Please,” she whispered, “just come look at the front seat.” I followed her around the sedan, and she opened the passenger door slowly. On the seat sat a small cardboard box lined with a faded pink blanket, and inside lay a child’s hospital bracelet, a tiny knitted cap, and a folded ultrasound photograph. My throat tightened.

“Her name was Lily,” Marlene said, her voice cracking. “She lived four hours. My husband told me we would never speak of her again.” She glanced toward her house, terrified. “He cleared the nursery that same week, and he has no idea I kept this.” Behind us, a door slammed, and heavy footsteps crossed her yard.