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 didn’t know,” I kept saying.

“I didn’t know he existed.”

At the funeral, I gave the eulogy alongside Gregory. I talked about the son I never knew but wished I had. I talked about the 36 other children who were bought and sold.

I talked about the systems that failed to protect them.

“Daniel’s death is a tragedy,” I said.

“But his life meant something. His investigation brought justice.”

“Because of him, Bernard Mai and Patricia Wells will face consequences. Because of him, laws are being reviewed.”

“Because of him, other families might get answers.”

After the funeral, I couldn’t let it go. I contacted a lawyer. I wanted to find the other 36 children.

I wanted them to know the truth. It took months, but we tracked down 22 of them. Some knew they were adopted; some had no idea.

Some had spent their whole lives wondering about their birth parents. We created a support group, a place for them to process, to share, to heal. One of them, a woman named Jessica Martinez, had a story similar to Daniel’s.

Her birth mother had been paid $12,000; her adoptive parents had paid $48,000. She’d only found out at age 28 when her adoptive mother confessed on her deathbed. Another, a man named Thomas Bousard, had grown up in an abusive adoptive home.

His adoptive parents saw him as property they’d purchased. When he learned the truth, he said it finally made sense. Not all the stories were sad.

Some had wonderful adoptive families. Some were grateful for the lives they’d had despite the circumstances of their adoption. But all of them deserved the truth.

The trial lasted eight months. Bernard Mai was 74 years old, unrepentant. His lawyer argued that he’d provided a service, that he’d connected children with loving families.

Patricia Wells was 68. She claimed she’d been helping desperate women, giving them options. Neither of them acknowledged the trauma they’d caused.

The families torn apart. The children who grew up not knowing their true origins. The birth mothers who were exploited.

The adoptive parents who were lied to. In March 2024, Mai was sentenced to 15 years in federal prison. Wells received 12 years.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But it was something.

I used the settlement money from a civil suit against Mai’s estate to create the Daniel Peterson Foundation. We worked to reform adoption laws in Canada, to provide support for separated families, to prevent illegal adoptions. We’ve helped reunite 47 families so far.

Not all from Mai’s network. Some from other situations, other cases of fraud, coercion, or deception. Every time we help someone find their truth, I think of Daniel.

Last month, I spread his ashes in the Saskatchewan River at a spot near the university where he went to school. Emma was there, the Thorntons, my daughters, some of his friends, some of the other children from Mai’s network. I said a few words.

Told him I was sorry I never got to meet him. Sorry I never got to be his father. But proud of the man he became, despite everything.

Caroline read a poem she wrote. Rebecca played guitar and sang a song Daniel had liked. As we watched the ashes scatter across the water, I thought about all the what-ifs.

What if Sharon had told me? What if I’d raised him? What if he’d grown up with his sisters?

But I’ve learned that what-ifs don’t help; they just keep you stuck. What helps is action. Making sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else.

Making sure the next Daniel doesn’t have to die wondering if he mattered. He mattered. They all mattered.

Not because of the money that changed hands, not because of the lies that were told. But because they were human beings who deserved the truth about where they came from. I keep Daniel’s letter in my wallet.

I’ve read it so many times that the paper is starting to wear at the creases. Sometimes I take it out and just hold it, this piece of my son that I have. My daughters visit more often now.

We talk about Daniel, keep his memory alive. Caroline named her newborn son Daniel William. She said he deserves to be remembered in our family.

The foundation keeps growing. We’ve helped change legislation in three provinces. We’ve provided funding for DNA testing services to help adoptees find biological relatives.

We’ve created educational programs about ethical adoption practices. None of it brings Daniel back. But it means his death wasn’t meaningless.

It means the pain he carried, the truth he uncovered, the justice he sought, all mattered. Sometimes people ask me if I’m angry at Sharon. The answer is complicated.

Yes, I’m angry. She stole my son. She forged my signature.

She took money for a human being. But I’m also angry at the system that allowed it to happen. At Bernard Mai, who preyed on vulnerable women.

At Patricia Wells, who betrayed her position of trust. At the government agencies that didn’t ask enough questions. Anger at one person is easy.

Anger at a whole broken system is harder to carry. But it’s the kind of anger that can actually change things. If you’re reading this, if you’re adopted or if you gave a child up for adoption, please know that you deserve the truth.

You deserve to know your story. And if that story involves deception or exploitation, you deserve justice. If you’re considering adoption, please do your research.

Make sure it’s legal, ethical, transparent. Ask questions; demand documentation. Don’t let desperation make you complicit in someone else’s trauma.

And if you’re keeping a secret about someone’s parentage, about a child given away, about documents forged, please understand that the truth will come out eventually. It always does. And when it does, the damage is so much worse than if you’d been honest from the start.

I never had a son, but for 32 years, somewhere in this world, a young man named Daniel Peterson existed. He had my eyes, my name, my blood. He was a teacher, a coach, a friend.

He was loved by the family who raised him. He should have been loved by me too. I carry that loss every day.

Not just the loss of Daniel, but the loss of all the years we could have had. The birthdays, the graduations, the quiet moments, the chance to be his father. Sharon took that from both of us.

The system that allowed her to do it stole from 37 families. But Daniel’s legacy is fighting back. Every family we reunite, every law we change, every person we help find their truth—that’s him still making a difference.

That’s my promise to the son I never knew. Not revenge, not bitterness, just making sure that the next father gets the phone call while his son is still alive. Just making sure that the next child doesn’t have to die to be heard.

Just making sure the truth, no matter how painful, is always better than a lie. Because Daniel taught me that in the end, it’s not the money that destroys lives. It’s not even the lies, though they hurt deeply.

It’s the erasure. The pretending someone never existed. The theft of possibility, of relationship, of love.

And the only way to fight erasure is to remember, to speak their names, to make sure their stories are told. So I’m telling Daniel’s story. I’ll keep telling it until these laws change everywhere.

Until adoption is always ethical. Until no mother is exploited and no father is deceived and no child is sold. That’s what a father does for his son, even if he never got the chance to meet him.

Even if the only inheritance he received was a letter and a mission. Even if all he has left is a name, a story, and a promise to make it mean something. Daniel Marcus Peterson. April 3rd, 1991 to November 14th, 2023. My son.