“MR. PETERSON, WE NEED YOU TO IDENTIFY A BODY. HE LISTED YOU AS HIS FATHER.” I SAID, “THERE’S BEEN A MISTAKE. I ONLY HAVE TWO DAUGHTERS. I DON’T HAVE A SON.” SHE INSISTED, “SIR, PLEASE COME DOWN TO THE MORGUE. THIS IS URGENT…” WHEN I WALKED IN AND THEY PULLED BACK THE SHEET, MY KNEES BUCKLED. LYING THERE DEAD WAS…

“MR. PETERSON, WE NEED YOU TO IDENTIFY A BODY. HE LISTED YOU AS HIS FATHER.” I SAID, “THERE’S BEEN A MISTAKE. I ONLY HAVE TWO DAUGHTERS. I DON’T HAVE A SON.” SHE INSISTED, “SIR, PLEASE COME DOWN TO THE MORGUE. THIS IS URGENT…” WHEN I WALKED IN AND THEY PULLED BACK THE SHEET, MY KNEES BUCKLED. LYING THERE DEAD WAS…

I never had a son. The call came at 9:23 in the morning on a Thursday in November. I was in my wood shop behind the house in Saskatoon, sanding down a chair leg for my granddaughter’s dollhouse when my phone buzzed against the workbench. Is this William Peterson speaking? Mr. Peterson, this is Sergeant Lisa Hartley with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

 I need you to come down to Regina General Hospital. There’s been a situation. I set down the sandpaper. What kind of situation? Sir, we have a deceased individual here, a young man. His identification lists you as his father. The workshop suddenly felt smaller. I think there’s been a mistake. I have two daughters. I don’t have a son. There was a pause.

 I could hear papers rustling. Mr. Peterson. The deceased is listed as Daniel Peterson, born April 3rd, 1,991. You’re listed as the biological father on his driver’s license. Emergency contact. The year Sharon left me. The year everything fell apart. I’ll need to see some identification when you arrive. But we really do need someone to come down.

 He had your phone number in his wallet written on a piece of paper. My hands were shaking. I’ll be there in 3 hours. I made the drive from Saskatoon to Regina in a days. Sharon and I had divorced in 1992. The marriage had been brief, toxic, and ended badly. She disappeared one day while I was at work, took half the money from our account, and I never heard from her again.

 We’d only been married for 18 months. She’d never mentioned being pregnant, but 1,991 April. That would have been right before she left. The hospital’s basement morg was colder than I expected. Sergeant Hartley met me at the entrance. A woman in her 40s with kind eyes that had seen too much. Mr.

 Peterson, I appreciate you coming. Before we proceed, I need to ask, did you know you had a son? No. My voice sounded hollow. My ex-wife and I divorced in 1992. She never told me she was pregnant. Hartley nodded slowly. The deceased was found in his apartment 2 days ago. Apparent suicide. No note, but we found some documents that we think you should see first. She led me to a small office.

On the desk was a manila envelope. We can’t legally give you these, but we can show them to you. After that, if you can identify the body, we’ll need you to sign some paperwork. I opened the envelope with trembling fingers. Inside were photocopies, a birth certificate. Daniel Marcus Peterson, born April 3rd, 1,991 in Regina General Hospital.

 Mother Sharon Lynn Peterson. Father, William James Peterson. That was my full name. There were more papers. Adoption records. My eyes scanned the text, but the words didn’t make sense at first. Then they did, and I felt the floor tilt beneath me. Sharon had put Daniel up for adoption 3 weeks after he was born. She’d signed my name on the consent forms, forged my signature.

 The adoptive parents were listed as Gregory and Diane Thornton of Calgary. Mr. Peterson. Hartley’s voice seemed far away. Are you all right? She gave away my son. She forged my name and gave away my son. I’m very sorry. Are you ready? I wasn’t ready. I would never be ready. The morg attendant pulled back the sheet and I saw my own face staring back at me.

 32 years younger, but unmistakable. He had my nose, my jawline, my mother’s gray eyes. There was a small scar above his left eyebrow that I had in the exact same place from a childhood hockey accident. My son. My knees buckled. Heartly caught my arm. It’s him, I whispered. That’s my son. I signed papers I barely read.

 They gave me another envelope. This one had been found in Daniel’s apartment, addressed to me. I didn’t open it there. I couldn’t. I drove to a Tim Hortons, sat in the parking lot, and finally opened the letter. It was dated one week before his death. Dear William Peterson, I don’t know if I should call you dad or Mr. Peterson or just William.

 I’ve practiced writing this letter 47 times. My name is Daniel. I’m your son. I found out 6 months ago. I was doing one of those DNA ancestry tests for fun. You know the kind you spit in a tube. I wasn’t looking for you. I had good parents. Greg and Diane Thornton raised me well. I had a happy childhood in Calgary. Went to university.

 Became a teacher. I had no complaints about my life. But the DNA test connected me to some cousins on my biological father’s side. They told me about you. They gave me your name. I hired a private investigator. That’s how I found out about Sharon Peterson, my birth mother. The investigator found the adoption records, found out she’d forged your signature, found out you never knew I existed.

 But he found out something else, too. Mr. Peterson, my mother didn’t just give me away. She sold me. The investigator tracked down a lawyer named Bernard Mai who handled my adoption. He’s retired now, living in Vancouver. When pressed, he admitted that he paid Sharon $15,000 for me. He then charged the Thornton 45,000 for legal fees and arrangements.

 It was a black market adoption. I confronted the Thornons. 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 8 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 1,988 and 1,998. 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 3 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. Said 15,000 was good money in 1991. 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 Thornton 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. Danielle, I sat in that parking lot for 2 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 3 weeks, I learned more than I wanted to know. Daniel’s investigation had been thorough. Bernard Mai had operated a babyselling 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 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 1,988 and 1,998.

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. 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 Daniels. Her birthother 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 Mika’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 Mikai’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 Thornons, my daughters, some of his friends, some of the other children from Mikai’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 whatifs. 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 whatifs 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 adopes 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 prayed 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 eraser, 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, 1,991 to November 14th, 2023. My son.