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»…

— You okay? You look tired. — Lots of stuff. I smiled, trying to hold it together.

— Dad call? — No. He looked down, bounced the ball. — You guys fighting? — Something like that.

I answered quietly. He handed me the ball. — Wanna play? And we played. Until dusk.

Silently, with occasional smiles. I looked at him. And couldn’t imagine him not being mine.

This boy with the chin dimple and habit of wrinkling his nose when he misses the hoop. Later, I passed everything I learned from Marina to Nathan. Name—Laura.

Red hair. Husband—construction. Birth same day.

He ran searches through databases, the state, discharges, hospitals. There were dozens of Lauras, but only one fit perfectly. Laura Benson, 24 years old.

Discharged January 6, 2010 with a boy. No complications. I dialed the number he found.

Long ring. No answer. Next day, I drove myself.

Address—a two-story brick house in a quiet suburb. Wind swayed the curtains on the balcony. I knocked.

A woman opened. Red hair in a messy bun. Gaze tired, wary.

Yes? Laura Benson? Yes. And you? Sorry to just show up? We might have given birth the same day. In January 2010.

At the city hospital on Main Street. She froze. A moment, and the door could have slammed.

But no. She said quietly. Come in.

House smelled of cinnamon and baby soap. In the living room. A teenager.

Skinny. With headphones. Quickly glanced at me and back to the screen.

This is Jacob. He’s 15. Stubborn and eats only mac and cheese.

I looked at him and it clicked inside. Head turn just like John’s. Same gesture.

He didn’t look like Laura. But I didn’t need more proof. «This might sound crazy,» I started. But the test showed the child I’ve raised for 15 years isn’t mine by blood.

And not my husband’s. I thought error. Then we found the nurse.

She said maybe that night they switched babies. Laura sank to the edge of the couch. I’ve always felt something off.

Jacob’s blood type doesn’t match me or my husband. But the pediatrician said it happens. And I figured I was just overthinking.

I don’t want to take your son. I just want the truth. I sat across.

«Can you do a test?» She was silent long. Then nodded. «Yes.»

Later, sitting on the porch with Michael, I tried to imagine what I’d feel if Jacob was next to me instead. I couldn’t. Didn’t want to.

Michael is mine. What difference does a paper make? Three days later, Nathan called.

Confirmed. «Jacob is your biological son. And Michael is hers.»

I sat on the floor and sobbed. Not from biology. Not from truth.

But from my whole life with its warmth and pain built on someone else’s mistake. I still hadn’t told Michael a word. How to explain to a child that you’re kind of mom and kind of not.

And John… I finally logged into the bank account and checked his statements. One charge—hotel room on the outskirts. Second—restaurant.

Third—flowers. Not for me. I drove there…