“My sister was desperate. She begged me for help. When I saw the opportunity, I told myself it was fate.”
“You stole my son.”
“I gave him a home.”
“You stole him.”
She finally looked at me. “I thought you’d never know.”
My heart pounded painfully.
Stefan and Eli were swinging side by side. And suddenly, memories clicked into place—Stefan talking in his sleep as if someone were answering him.
“My sister loves him,” she whispered. “She’s raised him. He calls her Mom.”
“And what do I call myself? I’ve mourned a son who was alive.”
“I thought you’d move on. I thought you’d have more children.”
“You don’t replace a child.”
Silence hung between us.
“What’s your sister’s name?”
She hesitated.
“If you refuse to tell me, I’m going straight to the police.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Margaret.”
“Does she know?”
“Yes.”
“She agreed to raise a child who wasn’t legally hers?”
“She believed what I told her. I said you gave him up.”
Rage surged—but beneath it, something steadier formed.
Resolve.
“I want a DNA test.”
“You’ll get one.”
“And then we involve attorneys.”
“You’re going to take him.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do. But I won’t let this stay hidden.”
“I was wrong,” she whispered.
“That doesn’t undo five years.”
We walked back to the boys.
“Mom! Eli says he dreams about me, too!”
I knelt and pulled Stefan close.
“Eli,” I asked gently, “how long have you had that birthmark?”
“Forever,” he said shyly.
I met the nurse’s eyes. “This isn’t over.”
The following week blurred into phone calls, legal consultations, and a tense meeting with hospital administration. Records were examined. Questions were asked.
The former nurse—Patricia—didn’t fight the investigation.
Eventually, the truth stood in black and white.
The DNA test confirmed it.
Eli was my son.
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