After the divorce, I was left with nothing and had to work as a waitress in a five-star hotel. Last night, when a billionaire guest reached for his glass of red wine, I was stunned to see a birthmark identical to mine on his wrist. After I asked his name, I realized it was the same name as the baby I lost thirty years ago. It sounds like the plot of some late-night drama on TV, not the life of a woman who now wipes tables for tourists a few blocks from Central Park. But this is my real life in N