Lucas looked up sharply, but before Grandma could reply, Daisy cut in. “Mom’s just tired. She mixes things up sometimes,” she said lightly, already flipping the page. “That was from a beach trip.” Her voice was too bright, too fast. Lucas felt something inside him harden. The page had turned.
That night, while the house lay heavy with sleep, Lucas remained wide awake, mind racing. He couldn’t shake the image of that photo—the railing, the ocean, the dinosaur in his hand. He needed answers, not guesses. Silently, he crept into his father’s office, heart pounding, and opened the filing cabinet.
His hands trembled as he flipped through folders. Robert O’Hara, ever meticulous, had labeled everything with mechanical precision. He found his file—Lucas O’Hara—and opened it slowly. Pediatric records, check-ups, growth charts. Then… “Initial intake: approx. age 4.” And below it: “Birth hospital: unknown.” Lucas blinked. Read it again. His stomach dropped.
It didn’t make sense. His throat tightened as panic crept in. He yanked out Lucy’s file, flipping pages with shaking hands. Her file had everything—birth records, delivery time, a scan of her birth certificate. Hers was a life with a beginning. His was a file that started mid-sentence.