My Wife Told Me Our Baby Died In 1991. I Just Found Out She Sold Him For $15,000 Instead. My Son Just Ended His Life Because Of Her Secret. How Do I Live With This?

I confronted the Thorntons. They had no idea. They thought it was legitimate.

They’d been told it was an expensive private adoption because Sharon wanted to ensure I went to a good family. They paid the money because they’d been trying to have a child for eight years. They were desperate.

They’re good people. They didn’t know. I kept digging.

Bernard Mai wasn’t working alone. There was a nurse at Regina General named Patricia Wells. She identified young unmarried mothers who were struggling, women who might be convinced to give up their babies for money.

She’d approach them, offer them a way out, promise them their babies would go to loving wealthy families. Sharon was one of them. But here’s what made me sick: It didn’t stop with me.

The investigator found records of at least 32 other babies sold through this network between 1988 and 1998. 32 children sold like livestock. Bernard Mai kept meticulous records hidden in his lake house, coded in ledgers.

The investigator found them. I reported everything to the RCMP three weeks ago. They’ve opened an investigation.

Mai and Wells will be arrested soon. But here’s the thing, Mr. Peterson. Here’s what I can’t live with.

I found Sharon. She’s living in Edmonton. I went to see her two months ago.

She didn’t remember me at first. Then, when I told her who I was, she laughed. She said she had made the smart choice.

She said $15,000 was good money in 1991. She said she used it to start fresh somewhere else. I asked her why she forged your signature, why she didn’t tell you.

She said you would have wanted to keep me. She said you were the type who would have fought for custody, who would have made it complicated. She said it was easier to just erase me.

I asked if she ever wondered about me. She said no. I asked if she knew how many other babies were sold.

She said she didn’t keep count, but Patricia Wells had approached her again in 1993 asking if she knew any other girls who might be interested. She wasn’t sorry, Mr. Peterson. I’m a good person.

The Thorntons raised me right. I’m a high school English teacher. I coach soccer.

I volunteer at the food bank. I have friends, a girlfriend, a life. But I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I was a transaction, that my birth mother looked at me and saw dollar signs.

That 32 other kids like me were sold. That you never even knew I existed. I can’t stop thinking about who I might have been if I’d known you, if I’d grown up with sisters, if Sharon hadn’t decided my life for both of us.

I’ve tried to move forward, I really have, but it follows me everywhere. I wanted to meet you, I really did. I drove to Saskatoon twice, parked outside your house, couldn’t bring myself to knock on the door.

What do you say to a father who doesn’t know you exist? How do you introduce yourself to sisters who have no idea they have a brother? I’m writing this because I need you to know the truth.

I need you to know that I existed, that I was real, that Sharon stole me from you. I’ve given all the evidence to the RCMP; they have everything. Mai and Wells will face justice.

I’m sorry I couldn’t be brave enough to meet you in person. I’m sorry you’re finding out this way. I’m sorry for all of it.

Tell my sisters I wish I’d known them. Daniel.

The Fight for Justice

I sat in that parking lot for two hours, reading and rereading the letter. Then I called Sergeant Hartley.

“I need to know everything.”

“I need copies of everything you found. I need to see the investigation files.”

“Mr. Peterson, I can’t just—”

“That was my son. Someone stole my son and sold him, and apparently, they sold 31 others. I need to know everything.”

There was a long pause.

“Come back to the station. I’ll see what I can do.”

Over the next three weeks, I learned more than I wanted to know. Daniel’s investigation had been thorough. Bernard Mai had operated a baby-selling operation disguised as a legitimate adoption agency.

Patricia Wells, who worked labor and delivery at Regina General from 1987 to 2001, had funneled vulnerable mothers to him. Young women, poor women, unmarried women, women who were scared and alone. Patricia would approach them during their pregnancy, usually in their third trimester.

She’d present adoption as a solution, but with a twist. She’d offer them money, anywhere from $5,000 to $20,000 depending on the health of the baby and the mother’s situation. She’d tell them the money came from the adoptive parents, that wealthy families paid extra to ensure a smooth process.

Most of the women believed they were doing the right thing, giving their babies better lives while also getting help to restart their own. They didn’t know that Mai was charging the adoptive families three to five times what he paid the birth mothers. They didn’t know that half of the adoptive families had no idea it was illegal.

They didn’t know that Mai had falsified documents, forged signatures, and bribed officials to make it all look legitimate. Sharon had been one of the first. She’d taken the money and disappeared, but she hadn’t been the last.

The RCMP investigation moved quickly once they had Daniel’s evidence. Mai was arrested in December. Patricia Wells was arrested in January.

Both were charged with human trafficking, fraud, forgery, and conspiracy. The investigation uncovered 37 children total, not 32. Daniel had missed five in his research.

37 children sold between 1988 and 1998. I tried to find Sharon. I wanted answers.

I wanted to look her in the eye and ask her how she could do it. But she’d disappeared again. The address Daniel had found was old.

She’d moved, no forwarding information. Maybe it was better that way. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d found her.

I focused instead on Daniel’s funeral. The Thorntons and I met for the first time at a coffee shop in Calgary. Gregory was a retired engineer; Diane was a librarian.

They were in their 60s now, devastated by the loss of their son.

“We didn’t know,” Diane kept saying.

“We didn’t know it was illegal. We just wanted a baby so badly.”

“I know,” I told her.

“You gave him a good life. I can see that.”

“He talked about trying to contact you,” Gregory said quietly.

“He was afraid. Afraid you’d hate him for not reaching out sooner, afraid you’d blame us.”

“I could never hate him, and I don’t blame you.”

We planned the funeral together. I met people who knew Daniel. His girlfriend Emma, who was a nurse; his best friend since third grade, Marcus; his fellow teachers; his soccer team.

Everyone said the same thing. He was kind, he was thoughtful, he helped everyone. But they also said he’d changed in the past six months, became quieter, withdrawn, stopped showing up to social events.

Emma cried when she talked to me.

“He wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. He just kept saying he was dealing with family stuff.”

“I thought maybe someone was sick. I never imagined this.”

I met my daughters, too. Caroline was 35, living in Toronto. Rebecca was 32, living in Vancouver.

I’d raised them after their mother and I divorced when they were young. They knew about Sharon, knew I’d been married before, but that was it. Telling them they had a brother they’d never meet was the hardest conversation of my life.

Caroline cried for hours. Rebecca got angry, demanded to know why I’d never looked for him.