***Alissa Blake***
The way back to downtown felt like it had been erased from my mind. I don’t remember if it was raining, if the sun was out, if anyone honked, or if I almost crashed the car. I just went on autopilot, relying on my disturbed and unstable mind. I just took deep breaths and kept looking ahead as if that were enough to get my mind in place.
But it wasn’t, there was no way.
I had just found out that everything I lived through was a lie. That my biological mother held me in her arms, that she loved me, and was forced to give me up. That my adoptive parents—the ones who claimed they had chosen me—broke the law in exchange for a kind of upbringing with no real bond of affection. Just convenience, a performative Christianity.
The worst part?
They did the same thing to Morgan.
That ate me up. Because it was one thing for me to have survived all that and left home early, with scars and traumas that might never go away, but that I could deal with. But Morgan… she was still in there. Still a child.
And if I didn’t do something, she would turn into exactly what I was. She’d think she deserved all of it.
My chances in all this were small, I knew that well. I wasn’t someone with a good record or reputation. So I needed something—something that could help me take at least one step in the right direction.
And that’s why I parked the car in front of the city hospital with the most serious look on my face. I didn’t even see who was around or know exactly what I was going to do—I just walked in and went straight to the counter without thinking twice.
The receptionist was a woman in her early fifties, with dark red dyed hair and an attitude that mixed boredom with disdain for anyone who showed up—I knew that type of professional well.
“Good afternoon,” I said, trying to sound polite. But my tear-streaked face and nervousness gave me away.
“Afternoon...” she replied without much enthusiasm, her eyes still glued to the computer screen.
“I need your help. I have to see some hospitalization records. From over ten years ago.”
She raised an eyebrow, finally looking at me. Then she laughed, like I’d said something absurd. I knew it was.
“That’s not how it works. You need authorization, or a judge’s order.”
I sighed. I already knew it wouldn’t be easy—I understood the gravity of what I was asking.
But I didn’t have time for red tape, and I was good at finding a way.
I slowly opened my bag and placed a wad of neatly folded bills on the counter. I did it calmly, looking into her eyes before continuing.
“Do you have kids?” I asked.
She looked surprised. But she nodded.
“Then you understand. This is important. It’s to protect a child.”
The woman looked at the money, then at me. She stayed silent for a few seconds that felt like hours.
Then she stood up and gestured with her head.
“Come with me.”
We walked down a narrow hallway, went down a staircase, turned through two doors, and entered a small room that smelled of mildew. The shelves were packed with folders, some already yellowed with time.
“What’s the name?” she asked, already pulling up a chair.
“Morgan Blake. Date of birth: February third, two thousand and seventeen.”
She searched for a few minutes, typing into a system so outdated it was embarrassing.
“There’s a record here. But it’s short.”
“Can you print it for me?”
She hesitated again. So I pushed a little more money in her direction.
“Just for the record… You never saw me.”
She took the money, huffed, and started printing. My hands were sweating as I waited. When she placed the paper in front of me, I had to reread it three times to believe it.
***Hospital admission – Date: April 10, 2019***
***Patient: Morgan Blake (2 years old)***
***Reason: Fracture in left humerus***
***Notes: reported as a domestic fall. No follow-up.***
“She was only two years old…”
The receptionist looked at me for a second, then looked away.
“I don’t want to know anything else. You can go now.”
I walked out of there with the papers in my hand and my head exploding, just wanting to cry. I didn’t ask about myself—I could’ve asked for the name on my file and found out about my birth, the name of the nurse Eva says my mom was, even though she never touched on the subject. But I didn’t want to know, honestly. I only cared about Morgan.
That was real, and more importantly, that was proof. It should be more than enough for me to get Morgan out of there now. Today. But I knew things weren’t that simple.
I had to sit in the car for a while before going inside. Wipe the tears and wait. When I finally opened the door, I saw Morgan in the living room, lying on the rug, watching cartoons and eating cookies with milk.
The contrast between her lightness and the chaos inside me was cruel.
“Hey, little one,” I said, trying to smile. She smiled back with a mouth full of crumbs.
“Ali! You took so long. Where did you go? Mommy was worried.” I looked to the side and saw her in the kitchen, distracted on her phone while the pressure cooker hissed. That’s when I took the chance.
“Yeah, I know. I’m fine, I promise. I… wanted to talk to you for a bit.”
She gave me a look like she was expecting a scolding. That hit me hard.
“I want to ask you something. Do you remember when you broke your little arm?”
She made a strange face, confused. Then thought for a bit.
“I broke my arm?”
“Yes. When you were very little, don’t you remember?”
She frowned, then pulled up her sleeve, showing her thin arm.
“There’s a little mark here, see?”
She showed me a small scar near her elbow. Subtle, but you could see it.
“Is that it?”
I nodded, trying not to let my face give away the desperation that settled in me that day.
“Do you remember what happened?”
She shook her head calmly.
“No. But mommy says I was clumsy. That I was always falling.”
“I see.”
Morgan went back to her cartoon, carefree. And I went to the bedroom, closed the door, sat on the edge of the bed, and breathed before they saw me and asked questions I didn’t have enough patience to dodge.
For the first time in a long time, I felt weak. Truly.
I had proof in my hands, but I still didn’t know what to do with it, or if it would be enough.
All I knew was that Morgan deserved more.
And I was going to give it to her, even if it was the last thing I ever did.