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»…

But honestly, it usually goes hard. Emotions, shock, confusion. Especially for the kids.»

I nodded. I hadn’t told Michael anything yet. Every time I looked at him, it took my breath away.

How do you tell a child? «You might not be ours, and we don’t even know whose you are.» And John? He hadn’t come home for three nights straight. No call, no message.

And honestly, for the first time in a long time, I felt relief. He sank into resentment, accusation, himself. And I couldn’t afford to drown next to him.

That same evening, I picked up that hospital photo again. The girl in scrubs, the one holding the baby, looking straight at the camera with some fear, like caught off guard. Young, about 20, badge tilted, can’t read.

But behind her, something blurry, like a second bassinet. Or am I imagining. I called Nathan.

«Can you find this Marina Parker?» He paused. «I have a private investigator. Usually works in 3-4 days.

But, Sarah, if we find her, are you ready to hear everything?» I wasn’t sure, but said «Yes.» Four days later, he called back.

Found her. Lives in a town 80 miles away. Now under the surname Walker, married.

Works as a florist. Florist. From nurse to flower seller.

Interesting choice. I didn’t wait. Drove myself.

Got behind the wheel and drove down bumpy rural roads that led like deep into myself. In my head, the same thing pounded. What if it’s her? The shop was tiny, between a pharmacy and a bait shop.

Pink shutters, curly sign, smell of lilies and eucalyptus. Behind the counter—a woman with a bun of blonde hair, scissors in hand. She looked up and froze.

Recognized me right away. — Can I help you? — Marina? — I asked quietly. She immediately lowered her eyes, face dimmed.

— Sorry, who are you? — I’m Sarah Thompson. Gave birth in January 2010. At your hospital.

You were there. She froze, then nodded. Didn’t chase me away.

That’s something. We went to the back room, among buckets of carnations and glass vases. I sat on an upside-down box.

She stood, fingers clenched in a fist. I was 21, she started. Second week on shift.

That night was hell. Two births at once. One—emergency C-section, the other—natural.

I was on the C-section. I reminded. She nodded.

Yes. The problem was, after monitoring, they moved the babies to another room. We had to check bracelets, tags, numbers on cribs.

But they rushed me. And… I thought it was right. I was sure.

— You switched them? — Not on purpose. It burst from her. But a couple days later, I noticed inconsistencies.

Went to the supervisor. And she told me. — Keep quiet, or you’ll go down.

Said I’d ruin families. And I… I just left. — Did anyone else ask you? Did anyone suspect? She shook her head.

— No one. But I remember that woman. She had a natural birth.

She had a red ponytail, tired, pale. Husband worked in construction, I think. Name… Laura, I think.

Laura. Redhead. Construction worker.

It was little. But it was something. When I left the shop, I had her new business card in hand.

And in my head—the wind noise pounding one single thought. What if her child is mine? At home, I found Michael on the porch. He was throwing a ball at the old hoop that John promised to fix six months ago.

And, of course, never did. — Hey, Mom. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve…