After 15 years of raising our son together, my husband said: «I’ve always doubted. Time for a DNA test.» I laughed… until the results came. The doctor looked at me and seriously said: «You’d better sit down»…

It’s about a possible baby switch in 2010.» The girl at registration looked at me like she didn’t know whether to sympathize or hit the panic button. Awkwardly smiled.

Without a court order or investigation request, we can’t. I didn’t let her finish. I’m not asking for addresses and names.

I’m asking just to check who else gave birth then. My child might not be mine. I’m begging you.

She hesitated, looked around, and whispered. «Wait here.» Ten minutes passed.

I was starting to think she just slipped away when a woman in her sixties approached me. Badge said Diana Anderson, patient relations manager. «I remember you,» she said quietly, before I could open my mouth.

«You had an emergency C-section. Complications. We almost lost you.»

I blinked, unbelieving. «You remember me?» I’ve been here over forty years. Some stories don’t fade.

We went to her office. I told her everything. About the DNA, the doctor, John, Michael.

She listened silently. Then opened a cabinet, pulled out a dusty folder labeled «Births.» January 2010.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. We were just switching to digital, but some things stayed on paper. She explained.

Running her finger down the column of names and times, Diana Anderson murmured. «That day, there were three other deliveries. Two boys, one girl.

Only yours was a C-section.» My heart pounded. «Is it… possible? That someone mixed them up?» She sighed heavily.

«We had two nurses out sick. Midwives were exhausted. I won’t lie.

Yes, it’s possible. But proving it…» She looked me straight in the eyes. «You’ll need lawyers.

If there really was a switch, someone else might start looking too. And you might not be first.» I didn’t drive home.

Couldn’t. Sat in the car in the parking lot, staring at the gray sky. Next to the same building where I first held Michael to me.

My child. Or not mine. And here’s the question tearing me apart inside.

If I didn’t give birth to him, but raised him as my own, who am I then? I got home in the evening. Michael was at grandma’s, John hadn’t shown up. Only his heavy footsteps on the second floor, like dull thuds of irritation.

Even to work he left earlier than usual now. No goodbye. No eye contact.

I got the box with photos again. Flipped through them in silence. In one shot, me in the hospital, still pale from anesthesia.

Hair stuck to forehead, bundle in arms, and in the background a nurse. Young, with a strange expression, like she was scared. Her badge has something written, but can’t make it out.

Looking and not understanding why she has my child in her hands? Or not mine? On the back, someone wrote Sarah and Michael. January 4, 2010. John’s handwriting.

Thick marker. I stared at that date like a sentence. I called Diana Anderson again.

My voice was calm, because I’d rehearsed it a hundred times. There was a girl, young, with long blonde hair, very young. She was holding the baby.

It’s visible in the photo. Who could that be? Yes, I heard after a pause. That was Marina Parker.

Brand new then. Only a month on the job. Left a couple weeks later without explanation.

Marina Parker. I couldn’t find her on social media or any databases. Like she vanished.

I called a lawyer. On Jessica’s recommendation, the one who always knows everything about guys. You need Nathan.

Nathan Cohen. Not cheap, but he handled a case against a clinic where a surgeon left a sponge in a patient. Got a seven-million settlement.

He knows how to shake things up. Two days later, I was in his office. Man in his forties, with tired eyes and a very attentive gaze.

I laid it all out to him. From the lab to the photo. He just nodded, jotting in a yellow notepad.

«I’ve had similar cases,» he said. «One boy lived in the next county. Another was never found.

Sometimes parents don’t look. They’re afraid.» «What if they find first?» I asked. «The real parents?» «Depends what they want.

Sometimes they demand visits. Or custody. Or just answers…