The exhaustion was a blanket. A heavy, suffocating thing that smelled faintly of spit-up and stale coffee. But joining this new moms’ group, it felt like pulling that blanket off for a moment, letting a sliver of fresh air in.
We were all there, a circle of tired eyes and swollen breasts, clutching lukewarm mugs and watching our babies snooze or gurgle. It was a haven. A place where “I only slept two hours” was met with nods of understanding, not judgment.
The facilitator, a seasoned mom of three, suggested we start by sharing our birth stories. A rite of passage. A bonding ritual. We went around the room. Each tale was a raw, beautiful tapestry of pain, love, and miracle.
A hallway | Source: Unsplash
One mom cried recalling the first time she held her daughter. Another laughed about her husband’s ridiculous playlist during labor. I listened, my own story still so vivid it felt like yesterday. The adrenaline, the fear, the overwhelming surge of love.
Then it was her turn. She sat across from me, her baby, a little girl, swaddled perfectly in her arms. Her voice was soft, a little shaky. “Mine was… intense,” she began. “My water broke at home, right in the kitchen. A huge gush. My partner almost dropped the casserole dish he was carrying.”
My water broke in the kitchen too, I thought. What a coincidence. I smiled, a sympathetic nod. So many women experience that.
She continued, describing the frantic drive to the hospital, the early contractions. “We got there, and the triage nurse, bless her heart, she took one look at my partner’s panicked face and just said, ‘Looks like someone’s earning his stripes tonight!'”
A rug on the floor | Source: Unsplash
My blood ran cold. The smile froze on my face. That exact phrase. My triage nurse, a cheerful woman named Carol, had said the exact same thing to my partner. I remember it so clearly because he’d nervously laughed and almost fallen over. No, no way. Just a common nurse saying, surely.
I tried to focus, to shake it off. My heart started to beat a little faster.
“Then the epidural…” she sighed, a memory of relief washing over her face. “It was just what I needed. And my partner, he’s not really a music guy, but he put on this playlist. And ‘Here Comes The Sun’ started playing just as they wheeled me into the delivery room.”
I couldn’t breathe. My hands started to tremble, almost imperceptibly. Here Comes The Sun. That was the song. The one my partner had meticulously curated for my birthing playlist. The one he’d specifically pointed out to me, saying, “This one’s for you, for when our sunshine arrives.”
An anxious man talking on the phone | Source: Freepik
My mind raced. Did I tell her? Did he? No, I barely know her. We met last week for five minutes. My eyes darted to my baby, sleeping soundly in my lap, oblivious.
She was nearing the end of her story now, her voice thick with emotion. “And then, after hours… when she finally crowned, and I was just exhausted… my partner leaned down, kissed my forehead, and whispered, ‘You’re incredible.’ Right then. Right when she crowned.“
My vision blurred. A wave of nausea hit me so hard I thought I might faint. I remembered his warm breath on my forehead, his lips brushing my skin, his whisper, “You’re incredible.” It wasn’t just similar; it was IDENTICAL. Word for word. Gesture for gesture. Moment for moment.
A cold dread seeped into my bones, a terrifying certainty forming.
“And she was born,” she finished, tears welling in her eyes, “on October 22nd. Our little fighter.” She squeezed her baby gently.
October 22nd.
My baby was born on October 24th.
A frustrated woman engaged on a phonecall | Source: Freepik
TWO DAYS.
TWO DAYS APART.
My brain was screaming. This is not a coincidence. This CANNOT be a coincidence. My partner had been absent for almost 24 hours just before my labor truly began. He’d told me his elderly aunt had taken a sudden turn, was rushed to the emergency room, and he needed to be there for his distraught mother. He’d looked so weary, so earnest when he told me. He’d even come back smelling faintly of hospital disinfectant and stale coffee.
He hadn’t been with his aunt. He had been with her.
My heart was a jackhammer against my ribs. My head spun. The room seemed to tilt. Every detail, every loving gesture she described from “her partner” was a direct, devastating echo of my partner’s actions during my labor. The way he held her hand, the way he comforted her, the small jokes, the playlist, the words. He’d done it twice. For two different women. Two days apart. In the same hospital.
A choked gasp threatened to escape my lips. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood.
A woman driving a car | Source: Unsplash
“He was just so amazing through it all,” she continued, her gaze drifting to mine, a genuine, warm smile on her face. “He said he practically lived at the hospital for a week straight, between me and his… his incredibly ill aunt in another ward. Poor thing.”
The blood drained from my face. My fingers went numb. HIS AUNT. THAT WAS THE LIE.
I looked at her, truly looked at her, this sweet, exhausted new mom who was reliving her most precious, intimate memory, completely unaware that she was dismantling mine, piece by agonizing piece. And then, as if the universe decided I hadn’t suffered enough, she lifted her baby, adjusting the tiny blanket.
“Oh, and look,” she cooed, gently pulling the blanket back from her baby’s shoulder. “She has this tiny little birthmark. See? Shaped almost like a tiny star, right here on her left shoulder.”
My breath hitched. My eyes fixated on the tiny, reddish mark.
My hand, unbidden, reached down and gently pushed aside the tiny sleeve of my own baby’s sleeper. I stared at the spot.
MY BABY. MY BABY HAS THE EXACT SAME BIRTHMARK. IN THE EXACT SAME SPOT.
An emotional older woman | Source: Pexels
It wasn’t just a betrayal. It wasn’t just a double life.
It was two babies. Born two days apart. To two different mothers. In the same hospital. And they shared the same distinctive birthmark.
My baby. And her baby.
A sudden, TERRIFYING thought ripped through me. No. It can’t be.
I looked at the two babies. So close in age. So close in features.
My partner. He wasn’t just a cheater. He had two families. Two children. Born almost simultaneously.
And as I sat there, paralyzed, a new, horrifying dread began to bloom in my chest. A question so unspeakable, so devastating, that it threatened to shatter my entire world:
Were they twins?
And if they were… where had my baby come from?
The room spun. The smell of disinfectant and stale coffee filled my nostrils. I stared at her baby. Then at mine. And the silent scream trapped in my throat was not just about his betrayal. It was about something far, far worse. Something that made me question everything I thought I knew about the child in my arms.
It felt like the beginning of the end. And I had no idea which end it was.
