The color drained from Susan’s face.
Michael shot to his feet.
“That’s impossible…”
The man slowly approached us.
“My name is George Miller,” he said. “And this baby is my daughter.”
Susan began to cry.
“We buried you…”
George looked at our children and took a heavy breath.
Forty-six years earlier, he had been working overseas on an oil platform. After an explosion, several workers were declared missing. Their families received closed coffins and were told that the bodies had been damaged beyond recognition.
I had believed my husband was dead.
But George had survived.
He had been transported in critical condition to a hospital in another country. He lost most of his memory and lived under a different name for decades. Only recently, when old hospital records were digitized, had he managed to discover his real identity.
But the baby’s story had begun even earlier.
During the first years of our marriage, George and I had wanted to have a third child. As part of our fertility treatment, several embryos had been preserved.
