My appendix ruptured at 2 a.m., and I called my parents seventeen times before the world began to blur. My mother finally texted back: “Your sister’s baby shower is tomorrow. We can’t leave now.”

She had probably said something polished and poisonous.

Gerald forced the words out.

“She said, ‘Holly has always known how to ruin important moments.’”

A tear slipped down my cheek and into my hair.

I did not sob.

I was too tired for sobbing.

Pain had hollowed me out, and betrayal had moved into the empty space.

“Then Dr. Reeves came out,” Gerald said. “He said your name. Holly Crawford.”

He looked at me with awe and devastation.

“I hadn’t heard that first name in twenty-six years without feeling like someone had pressed a knife under my ribs. Holly. That was the name Ellie and I chose together. She wanted something pretty for Christmas because you were due in December. I wanted something strong enough to survive winter.”

I covered my mouth.

Gerald continued, softer now.

“I asked the nurse your date of birth. She wouldn’t tell me, of course. But then your mother said it while arguing. December seventeenth. And I knew.”

My birthday.

December seventeenth.

Not premature. Not random. Not simply mine.

Chosen.

“Why didn’t you say anything to her?” I asked.

“I did.”

His expression changed then. The gentle warmth faded, replaced by something harder.

“I asked her if she remembered Gerald Maize.”