My “victims”—my children—were now 19, 17, and 15. They were sitting in the waiting room, terrified, while strangers in suits interviewed them about their childhoods. I could hear my daughter screaming at someone to let her in.
The state prosecutor arrived an hour later. He treated me not like a sick woman, but like a criminal mastermind who had stolen three infants. “Tell us who the real mother is,” he demanded.
“I am!” I screamed, tears streaming down my face. “Check the birth certificates! Check the hospital records!” But records can be forged, he reminded me. DNA was the gold standard.
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