PART 2 — The Reason He Wanted a Son
“That’s not my son.”
For a moment, I thought the medication had made me misunderstand him.
“What did you say?”
Aaron stared at the baby in his arms.
His face had gone completely pale.
“I said… that’s not my son.”
The room seemed to tilt.
The nurse immediately looked at me.
I felt my heart pounding.
“What are you talking about?”
Aaron slowly looked at me.
“Look at his wrist.”
I glanced down.
The baby had a tiny birthmark just below his wrist.
I had never noticed it before.
“What about it?”
Aaron swallowed.
“My brother had the same mark.”
I stared at him.
“What does your brother have to do with our baby?”
Aaron didn’t answer.
Instead, he carefully placed the baby in the bassinet.
Then he walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to make a phone call.”
His voice was shaking.
I had never seen him like that.
Not when our daughters were born.
Not during difficult pregnancies.
Not even when his father died.
Something was terribly wrong.
“Aaron, you’re frightening me.”
He stopped.
Then he turned around.
“I need you to tell me something.”
“What?”
“Did anyone else know you were pregnant?”
I stared at him.
“Of course. Your family. Mine. Our friends.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“Someone else.”
I couldn’t understand.
“Who?”
He walked back toward me.
“Dr. Peterson.”
My stomach tightened.
Our fertility specialist.
We had stopped seeing him years ago.
“What about him?”
Aaron pulled out his phone.
“I received a message from him this morning.”
He showed me the screen.
The message contained only one sentence.
“If the baby is a boy, don’t let him leave the hospital.”
My blood ran cold.
“What?”
Aaron looked at the baby.
“He knew.”
“Who knew?”
“I don’t know.”
Then the door opened.
A nurse rushed inside.
“Mrs. Miller?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry, but there’s been a problem with the baby’s records.”
My heart stopped.
“What kind of problem?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“The identification bracelet doesn’t match the hospital record.”
Aaron stepped forward.
“What does that mean?”
“We’re investigating.”
I looked toward our son.
He was sleeping peacefully.
I suddenly felt terrified.
“Is he our baby?”
The nurse hesitated.
That hesitation broke me.
“What are you saying?”
She quickly explained that another mother had delivered a baby boy approximately twenty minutes before me.
There had been an error in the nursery.
Two newborn boys had briefly been placed together during an emergency.
But the nurse assured us the hospital would determine which baby belonged to whom.
Aaron looked at me.
His face was completely devastated.
Then he whispered:
“That explains the birthmark.”
I didn’t understand.
“What?”
“My brother’s son had that exact birthmark.”
I stared at him.
“Aaron, your brother doesn’t have a son.”
He looked at me.
“Yes, he does.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
He took a step backward.
“My brother had a son.”
“When?”
“Twenty-six years ago.”
I felt confused.
“You told me your brother died before we met.”
“He did.”
“Then how could he have a son?”
Aaron’s eyes filled with tears.
“Because his son disappeared.”
Silence.
I couldn’t breathe.
“What are you talking about?”
Aaron sat down.
“When my brother died, his wife claimed their baby had died too.”
“But?”
“But my father never believed her.”
Aaron pulled an old photograph from his wallet.
It showed a young couple standing beside a newborn baby.
The baby’s wrist was visible.
And there it was.
The exact same birthmark.
I looked at Aaron.
“Why have you carried that picture all these years?”
He looked toward the nursery.
“Because I’ve been searching for that child.”
My heart began racing.
“Why?”
“Because my father believed the baby was stolen.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
Then the doctor entered.
His expression was serious.
“Mr. and Mrs. Miller, we need to speak privately.”
Aaron stood.
“About the babies?”
The doctor nodded.
“There is something unusual.”
He placed two files on the table.
“One of the newborns has a blood type that doesn’t match the mother listed on his record.”
My heart stopped.
“Which baby?”
The doctor looked at Aaron.
“Your son.”
Aaron’s face went white.
Then the doctor continued.
“But that’s not the strangest part.”
He opened the second file.
“Your baby’s DNA is already showing a genetic connection to someone else in our hospital records.”
I stared at him.
“Who?”
The doctor hesitated.
Then he said a name.
A name that made Aaron collapse into the chair.
His missing nephew.
I looked at Aaron.
He was crying.
“But that’s impossible.”
The doctor shook his head.
“No.”
He placed another document on the table.
“We ran an emergency DNA comparison.”
“And?”
The doctor looked directly at me.
“Your newborn isn’t just genetically related to Aaron’s family.”
“He appears to be the same child who disappeared twenty-six years ago.”
My entire body went numb.
I looked toward the nursery.
Our newborn son was sleeping peacefully.
The boy Aaron had spent eight years desperately wanting.
The boy he had almost rejected the moment he saw him.
And suddenly, the reason became clear.
Aaron wasn’t afraid because the baby wasn’t his.
He was afraid because somehow…
his long-lost nephew had returned.
But there was one question nobody in that room could answer.
How could a newborn baby be the same child who disappeared twenty-six years ago?
Then the doctor quietly closed the door.
And whispered:
“There’s another explanation.”
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