Chapter 5: The Missing Day
The photograph stayed on my phone long after the screen dimmed.
I kept staring at it anyway.
There I was.
Same dark hair. Same face. Same silver bracelet I wore every day.
Standing beside Adrian and Camille in a clinic hallway I had never seen.
My hand rested over my stomach.
Flat.
No pregnancy.
No memory.
Nothing.
I looked up at Adrian.
“What happened to me on January 16?””
He didn't answer.
“Adrian.””
“I told you, I don't know.””
“You said I wasn't there.””
“I said I didn't remember seeing you there.””
“That’s not the same thing.””
He looked away.
I stepped closer.
“You have spent months telling yourself I betrayed you. You accused me without ever asking me what happened. Now I find out there is a photograph of me at a clinic on a day I can't remember.””
“I know.””
“And you're still telling me you don't know?””
“I swear.””
My phone buzzed again.
Another message.
*Meet me tomorrow at 10 a.m. The coffee shop across from Westbrook. Come alone. Bring nothing connected to Adrian.*
I showed him the screen.
His face hardened.
“Who is this person?””
“I don't know.””
“Don't go.””
“I am going.””
“Olivia, this could be dangerous.””
I stared at him.
“Dangerous?””
He took a step toward me.
“You're eight months pregnant.””
“And someone has been altering my medical records.””
“I'll go with you.””
“No.””
“Why?””
“Because I don't know if you're part of this.””
He flinched.
I almost apologized.
Almost.
Then I remembered the envelope.
The altered report.
The photograph.
And the way he had looked at Camille every time I asked a difficult question.
“I don't know what to believe anymore,” I whispered.
He sat on the edge of the nursery chair.
“I never wanted any of this.””
“But you let it happen.””
He lowered his head.
“I know.””
I left him there.
That night, I didn't sleep.
Every time I closed my eyes, the photograph appeared again.
January 16.
Where had I been?
What had happened?
Who had taken that photograph?
And why had someone made sure I forgot?
At 3:17 a.m., I finally sat up in bed.
My body felt heavy.
My daughter was moving constantly now, little kicks pressing against my ribs.
I turned on the bedside lamp and opened my laptop.
I searched my calendar.
January 16.
There was an entry.
*10:00 a.m. — Women's Health Appointment*
I frowned.
I didn't remember that appointment.
I checked the previous weeks.
January 9.
January 23.
No appointment on either side.
Only January 16.
My heart began racing.
I clicked it.
The appointment had been created from an account I didn't recognize.
Not my personal email.
Not my work email.
A secondary account.
An old email address I hadn't used in years.
I stared at the screen.
How had anyone accessed it?
I clicked the account history.
One login stood out.
January 15.
From a device registered in our house.
My breathing stopped.
Someone had logged into my old account the night before I disappeared from my own memory.
I heard a floorboard creak.
I closed the laptop.
The bedroom door opened.
Adrian stood there.
“You’re still awake.””
“Yes.””
He looked at the laptop.
“What are you doing?””
“Researching my life.””
His face tightened.
“Olivia…”
“Did you log into my old email?””
“No.””
“Did Camille?””
He went silent.
That silence again.
I rose from the bed.
“Adrian.””
“I don't know.””
“You always say that.””
“Because I really don't.””
“Then why were there login records from our house?””
He shook his head.
“I didn't know about that.””
“Was anyone else here that night?””
He stared at me.
“No.””
“So how did somebody access the account?””
“I don't know.””
I turned away.
“Go.””
He didn't move.
“Olivia, please.””
“Go.””
After a moment, he left.
I waited until I heard his footsteps disappear down the hallway.
Then I opened the laptop again.
The old email account contained hundreds of messages.
Most were spam.
Some were newsletters.
Then I found one from January 15.
No subject.
No text.
Only an attachment.
I clicked it.
A photo loaded.
My stomach dropped.
It was a photograph of me sitting in a clinic waiting room.
I was wearing a beige coat.
My face looked exhausted.
Across from me sat a woman.
I zoomed in.
My blood turned cold.
It was my mother.
I hadn't seen her in nearly a year.
She had moved across the country after a painful argument with Adrian.
But there she was.
Sitting beside me at Westbrook.
I grabbed my phone and called her.
It rang six times.
Then voicemail.
“Mom, it’s me.””
My voice shook.
“I need you to call me. Right now.””
I hung up.
Another message appeared in the email thread.
*You asked me to keep you safe.*
The sender's address was unfamiliar.
I scrolled farther.
There was another line.
*You said you didn’t trust Adrian.*
My hands trembled.
Why would I say that?
Why couldn't I remember?
Then I saw an audio file.
Recorded January 16.
I clicked play.
Static filled the room.
Then my own voice.
Weak.
Shaky.
But unmistakably mine.
“Mom, if anything happens…”
I stopped breathing.
There was a pause.
My recorded voice continued.
“Promise me you won't tell Adrian where I went.””
I covered my mouth.
The recording ended.
I sat there frozen.
I had forgotten.
Completely.
Not a dream.
Not a suspicion.
A real conversation.
With my mother.
About Adrian.
I called her again.
This time, she answered.
“Olivia?””
“Mom.””
There was a long silence.
“Where are you?””
“At home.””
“With Adrian?””
I swallowed.
“Yes.””
Her voice changed.
“Get out.””
The same words Adrian had used.
But they sounded completely different coming from her.
“Why?””
“Because he cannot know I’m talking to you.””
“Mom, what happened on January 16?””
Silence.
“Mom?””
“You remembered?””
“I found a recording.””
She inhaled sharply.
“Then they must have sent it to you.””
“Who?””
My mother began crying.
“Olivia, I wanted to tell you.””
“Tell me what?””
“I tried to stop them.””
My heart hammered.
“Stop who?””
“Your husband. And that woman.””
“Camille?””
“Yes.””
I closed my eyes.
“Mom, what did they do?””
She didn't answer.
“Please.””
Finally, she whispered, “You went to Westbrook because you believed Adrian was hiding something about your pregnancy.””
“I wasn’t pregnant yet.””
“I know.””
“Then why was I there?””
“Because of a test.””
“What test?””
My mother's breathing grew ragged.
“A paternity test.””
I stared at the wall.
“I wasn't pregnant.””
“You thought you were.””
The words made no sense.
“Mom, I was not pregnant.””
“You were.””
“No.””
“You had a positive test.””
I felt dizzy.
“That’s impossible.””
“You were already pregnant.””
I looked down at my stomach.
The baby kicked.
My mother's voice became smaller.
“Olivia, you were pregnant before January 16.””
I couldn't speak.
“How?””
“I don't know.””
“You're my mother.””
“I know what I saw.””
“What did you see?””
She began sobbing.
“You were terrified.””
“Why?””
“Because Adrian wasn’t the only one who knew about the pregnancy.””
My hands went cold.
“Who else knew?””
“Camille.””
I closed my eyes.
“Mom, tell me everything.””
“I can't over the phone.””
“Why?””
“Because I made a mistake once.””
“What mistake?””
“I trusted Adrian.””
The line went silent.
Then she said something that made my entire body freeze.
“You didn't lose the baby on January 16, Olivia.””
My breath caught.
“What?””
“You lost the memory.””
I couldn't move.
“What did you just say?””
“There was an accident.””
“What accident?””
“I found you unconscious.””
“When?””
“January 16.””
My voice became a whisper.
“Where?””
“At Westbrook.””
I gripped the phone.
“Why was I unconscious?””
My mother hesitated.
Then:
“Because someone drugged you.””
The words struck like a blow.
“Who?””
“I don't know.””
“You know.””
“I don't.””
“Mom!””
Her voice broke.
“I saw Camille leave the room.””
I shut my eyes.
“And Adrian?””
“He was already there.””
My heart sank.
“You said you didn't trust Adrian.””
“I didn't.””
“Why?””
“He was holding a document.””
“What document?””
My mother whispered:
“An adoption agreement.””
I went completely still.
“Adoption?””
“Yes.””
“For the baby?””
“No.””
My blood ran cold.
“Then what was he trying to adopt?””
My mother started crying again.
“Not a baby.””
“A child?””
“No.””
“Then what?””
She whispered the answer.
“Your frozen embryos.””
The call went dead.
For several seconds, I sat there without moving.
Then my laptop screen flickered.
A new email appeared.
The sender was the same unknown address.
The message contained one sentence.
*Your mother only told you half the truth.*
Beneath it was a photograph.
I opened it.
It showed a hospital room.
Me, unconscious in a bed.
Camille standing beside me.
Adrian on the other side.
And on the table between them was a folder.
Across the top, in bold black letters, were the words:
*EMBRYO TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION*
My stomach twisted.
Then I looked at the date.
January 16.
The day everyone told me I couldn't remember.
The day someone had apparently made a decision about my unborn child's future without me.
And at the bottom of the photograph, partially hidden beneath the folder, was another signature.
Not mine.
Not Adrian's.
It belonged to a doctor whose name I knew.
May you like
My current obstetrician.
The same doctor who was scheduled to deliver my baby in six weeks.
