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mother. She has been taken into protective services awaiting further exploration to find suitable family members.
    The report continued on another page—a page that wasn’t included in my package.
    No matter how many times I read the article, it didn’t seem real. I felt so sad for that poor child and had to remind myself that I was that poor child. I was Elizabeth Anne—that was who I was. I was that little girl, almost four years old, who had clung to the body of her mother in the backyard of her house. I couldn’t remember the house. I couldn’t remember my mother. I couldn’t remember the scene. If it wasn’t for the birth certificate, if it wasn’t for Mrs. Hazelton swearing that it was me, I wouldn’t have believed it.
    There was one other newspaper clipping, taken from the front page of the same paper three months later. The headline was equally bold and just as troubling.
    MAN CONVICTED OF MURDER
    I started to read it again but skipped over the first few paragraphs. I’d gone over it a dozen times as well and didn’t need to know anything more about the trial. I scanned down the page.
    Mr. Sullivan, the on-again, off-again boyfriend of the victim, Miss Victoria Roberts, is also the father of the child, Elizabeth Anne Roberts, age three. In a fit of rage and passion, Mr. Sullivan—who has previous convictions for assault—took the life of Miss Roberts and robbed young Elizabeth Anne of both her mother and her father.
    Throughout the trial, Mr. Sullivan maintained his innocence, even taking the stand in his own defense and pleading his innocence to the jury. The presiding judge, the Honorable Mr. Justice Stern, said that while the witness was highly credible in arguing his innocence, under cross-examination Mr. Sullivan was not able to provide a suitable explanation for why the murder weapon—a hammer—was found hidden in a closet in his residence. Mr. Sullivan claimed that he was “framed” but was unable to provide either an explanation of who might have done this or names of any other possible suspects who would have had motive to take Miss Roberts’s life.
    In addressing the court and jury after hearing the guilty verdict, Mr. Sullivan again maintained his innocence and offered the jury his “forgiveness” for convicting an innocent man and depriving his daughter of the care of her remaining parent.
    I felt like my heart had turned to stone. That was me. I was the daughter.
    In handing down his sentence, Justice Stern indicated that he felt the murder was a “crime of passion” and not premeditated. He therefore endorsed a verdict of second-degree murder, sparing Mr. Sullivan from the death penalty. However, due to the “cowardly” nature of the attack and the unwillingness of the accused to accept responsibility, the judge sentenced him to the maximum allowable time—25 years—with a strong recommendation that he not be eligible for parole and instead serve his entire sentence.
    I felt my breath catch in my throat, and tears started to come to my eyes. I brushed them away with the back of my hand. I went to put the clipping down on my lap and then thought better of it. I put it back in the envelope, out of sight.
    Growing up, I’d had the same two dreams, the same two fantasies, that every other orphan—at least, the ones I knew—seemed to have: that someday I’d be adopted, or that one day my real mother would walk in and take me away. The two fantasies would ebb and flow, fade and grow. As one got stronger, the other faded.
    When I was young, there were always thoughts, whispers, in the back of my head: today could be the day I’d become part of a family. The thoughts were still there when I went to bed at night, and I’d offer them as a prayer. I remembered lying in bed, whispering with Toni in the dark about the families we dreamed about. How we thought it was only going to be a matter of time until it happened. After all, some of the children got adopted. We ignored the fact