The two police officers didn’t look at me with pity, despite the dialysis tubes hooked into my arm. They stood at the foot of my hospital bed, hands resting near their belts. My 19-year-old son, Leo, was blocked from entering the room by a nurse.
“Mrs. Fairchild?” the taller officer asked, his voice devoid of warmth. “We need to speak with you regarding the maternity of the young man outside.” I laughed nervously, thinking it was a mix-up with the insurance paperwork.
“I don’t understand,” I stammered, feeling the familiar exhaustion of my condition wash over me. “Leo is my son. We’re just waiting for the transplant compatibility results.” The officer pulled a folded document from his vest.
“The results are in, ma’am,” he said, stepping closer. “And according to the state lab, there is a 0.0% chance that you are the biological mother of Leo Fairchild or his two siblings.”
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