I heard a faint cry coming from a tied bag next to the container and was sure I had misheard—but when I cut open the plastic, I found a baby, and the bandage on its leg contained the name of the daughter who hadn’t wanted to know me for three years.
The policeman looked at me.
— Because the surveillance from the street shows that at three seventeen her husband’s car left the garage.
— I?
— His mother was driving.
— Was Kamil with her?
— No.
— Aneta?
— She stayed at home.
I knew then that finding my granddaughter was not the end of the nightmare.
It was just the beginning.
Kamil tried to convince the police that my daughter abandoned her own child in a postpartum frenzy—but the footage from his mother’s car exposed their plan, and the result of a real paternity test destroyed the last lie they had built it on.
I saw Aneta two hours later.
She was sitting in a wheelchair in the hospital corridor.
She was pale.
Her hair was tied carelessly at the nape of her neck.
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