“I used to work there, yes,” she admitted carefully.
“You were there when I delivered my twins.”
“I meet a lot of patients.”
“Have we met?”
I forced myself to breathe. “My son had a twin. They told me he died.”
The boys were still holding hands, whispering to each other as if they’d known one another forever, oblivious to our conversation.
“What’s your son’s name?” I asked.
She swallowed. “Eli.”
I crouched down and gently lifted the boy’s chin. The birthmark was real, not a trick of the light or a coincidence.
“What’s your son’s name?”
“How old is he?” I asked as I stood up slowly.
“Why do you want to know?” the woman asked defensively.
“You’re hiding something from me,” I whispered.
“It’s not what you think,” she said quickly.
“Then tell me what it is,” I demanded.
Her gaze darted around the playground.
“It’s not what you think.”
The world continued as if mine hadn’t just cracked open.
“We shouldn’t talk about this here,” she said.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I replied sharply. “You owe me answers.”
The woman’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why won’t you look at me?”
She crossed her arms. “Lower your voice.”
“You owe me answers.”
“We’re not leaving until you explain why my son looks exactly like yours.”
She exhaled slowly. “Okay, look, my sister couldn’t have children.” Her voice dropped lower. “She tried for years, but nothing worked. It destroyed her marriage.”
“And?”
“Kids, we’re just going to sit by the benches over there. Stay here where we can see you,” she instructed the boys.
Every instinct screamed not to trust her as we walked away. But every maternal instinct screamed louder that I needed the truth.
“Okay, look, my sister couldn’t have children.”
“If you do anything suspicious,” I warned, “I’ll go to the police.”
She met my gaze. “You won’t like what you hear.”
“I already don’t.”
She folded her hands together when we reached the benches. They were shaking.
“Your labor was traumatic,” she began. “You lost a lot of blood. There were complications.”
“I know that. I lived it.”
“You won’t like what you hear.”
“The second baby wasn’t stillborn.”
The world seemed to tilt.
“What?”
“He was small,” she continued. “But he was breathing.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“The second baby wasn’t stillborn.”
“Five years,” I whispered. “All this time you let me believe my child was dead?”
She looked down at the grass. “I told the doctor he didn’t survive. He trusted my report.”
“You falsified medical records?”
“I convinced myself it was mercy,” she said, her voice trembling. “You were unconscious, weak, and alone. No partner or family was in the room. I thought raising two babies would break you.”
“You didn’t get to decide that!” I said, louder than I intended.
“I thought raising two babies would break you.”
“My sister was desperate,” she continued, tears forming in her eyes. “She begged me for help. When I saw the opportunity, I told myself it was fate.”
“You stole my son,” I said.
“I gave him a home.”
“You stole him,” I repeated, my hands gripping my handbag.
She finally looked up at me.
“You stole my son.”
“I thought you’d never know,” she admitted.
My heart pounded so hard I felt sick.
I could see Stefan and Eli swinging side by side. And for the first time in five years, I understood why my son sometimes talked in his sleep as if someone were answering him.
I stood up. “You don’t get to say that and expect me to stay calm. Do you understand that?”
Tears streamed down her face, but I felt no sympathy then.
I understood why my son sometimes talked in his sleep.
“My sister loves him,” she whispered. “She’s raised him. He calls her Mom.”
“And what do I call myself?” I demanded. “For years I’ve mourned a son who was alive.”
She pressed her hands against her forehead. “I thought you’d move on. You were young. I thought you’d have more children.”
“You don’t replace a child,” I said through clenched teeth.
Silence settled between us, heavy and suffocating.
“He calls her Mom.”
I forced myself to think clearly. I needed information.
“What’s your sister’s name?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“If you refuse to tell me,” I said steadily, “I’m walking straight to the police station.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Her name is Margaret.”
“Does she know?”
A pause.
I needed information.
“Yes.”
Rage surged through me again. “So she agreed to raise a child who wasn’t legally hers?”
“She believed what I told her,” she insisted quickly. “I said you gave him up.”
I was beyond livid!
We both looked at Stefan and Eli, who were laughing and racing toward the slide. They moved the same way, leaned forward the same way, and even tripped over their own feet identically.
“She believed what I told her.”
My chest tightened, but something else rose beneath the pain. Resolve.