Chapter 10: The Gap in the Record

I drove back to my apartment on autopilot, the question looping in my brain like a broken record. *Who am I?* The streetlights blurred into streaks of neon, mirroring the chaos inside my head. The birth certificate in the lockbox said I was Sarah Sterling, born to Clara. But Clara said her baby was a boy. Leo.

My hands gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. Edith had built a labyrinth of lies so dense I couldn't see the sky anymore.

My apartment was quiet when I let myself in. Too quiet. My sister-in-law, who was watching Leo's cat while he was in the hospital, had left a note on the counter: *Fed Mr. Whiskers. Leftover lasagna in the fridge. Call me.*

I ignored the food. I walked straight to the bookshelf in the living room.

On the bottom shelf, sandwiched between college textbooks and Leo's oversized picture books, was a white leather album. *Baby Sarah.*

I pulled it out. The cover was embossed with silver foil, the spine uncracked. Edith had given it to me when I turned eighteen, a heavy, expensive token of her benevolence. *See?* it seemed to say. *See how much we wanted you?*

I sat on the floor and opened it.

The first page was a professional studio portrait. Me, swaddled in pink, lying on a white fur rug. The date was written in Edith's perfect script: *Sarah, 3 months old.*

I turned the page. Another studio shot. Me in a christening gown. *Sarah, 6 months old.*

I flipped through the pages faster. Studio shot. Studio shot. Me in a high chair, wearing a stiff dress that looked uncomfortable. Me on a rocking horse that looked brand new.

There were no candid photos. No blurry shots of a tired mother holding a newborn. No pictures of me in a hospital bassinet with a red, squalling face.

Every single image was posed. Perfect. Curated.

I went back to the beginning. Where were the hospital photos? The bracelet on the tiny wrist? The 'It's a Girl' balloons?

There was nothing. The record of my life began at three months old, fully formed, dressed in lace and silence.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my own photos of Leo. There were thousands. Leo covered in spaghetti sauce. Leo sleeping with his mouth open. Leo crying because he dropped his ice cream. Messy, chaotic, real life.

I looked back at the album. It wasn't a memory book. It was a portfolio. A catalog of a child acquired, not born.

I reached for the edge of the first photo, the one of me at three months. It was glued down tight. I worked my fingernail under the corner and peeled it back.

The glue was old and dry. It gave way with a soft tearing sound.

I flipped the photo over.

There was nothing written on the back. No photographer's stamp. No date.

I peeled up the next one. And the next.

Nothing.

Then I reached the back of the album. There was a pocket inside the rear cover, meant for loose keepsakes. It was empty.

But I felt something. A slight ridge in the paper lining the pocket.

I grabbed a letter opener from the desk and slit the lining.

A single, small Polaroid slid out.

It was grainy and overexposed, the colors shifted toward orange with age. It showed a baby in a plastic hospital bassinet. The baby was tiny, red-faced, screaming.

And on the card slotted into the front of the bassinet, written in black marker, was a name.

It wasn't Sarah.

And it wasn't Leo.

The name was *Baby Boy Doe.*

And underneath, in smaller letters: *Foundling. Intake #88-402.*

I stared at the photo. Foundling. Abandoned.

Edith hadn't just stolen a baby from Clara. She had erased an entire human being and replaced him with a lie.

And if I was the baby in this picture