Still silence. Then he whispered: “From your father.” I froze. “My father?” Mark nodded. “And if you want to know why Stefan was raised by Elena…” He looked toward the bedroom window. “…you need to find out what your father did eight years ago.” I stared at him. “What did he do?” Mark’s expression hardened. “He wasn’t trying to save one of the twins.” “He was trying to make sure neither of them survived.” And somewhere downstairs, my phone began ringing.
The caller ID showed a number I hadn’t seen in eight years. My father’s. Except my father had been dead for six years. My father’s name glowed on the screen. For several seconds, I couldn’t move. The phone kept ringing. Once. Twice. Three times. Mark stared at it. “You shouldn’t answer that.” I looked at him. “You said my father wanted the twins dead.” “I said you need to know what happened.” “Then why is his phone calling me?”
Mark’s face changed. That was when I knew. He was afraid. Not pretending. Not manipulating me. Truly afraid. I answered. “Hello?” Static. Then a man’s voice whispered: “Don’t trust Mark.” My blood ran cold. “Dad?” There was silence. Then: “Take the boys and leave the house.” “Dad, you’re dead.” “I know what they told you.” My hand began shaking. “Where are you?” “I don’t have much time.” Mark suddenly lunged toward me. I stepped backward. “Stay away!” He stopped. The voice on the phone continued. “The babies were never supposed to be separated.” “Why were they?”
“Because your husband was given an ultimatum.”
My eyes moved to Mark.
“What ultimatum?”
My father’s voice became weaker.
“Your father-in-law owed money to the wrong people. Mark was told that one of the twins would be taken as payment.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“No.”
Mark closed his eyes.
My father continued.
“Mark refused.”
“Then why did he tell me my baby died?”
“Because he thought it was the only way to save both boys.”
I stared at my husband.
“Where is my son?”
My father’s voice trembled.
“Elena had lost her baby. Mark arranged for Stefan to go to her. He believed the people looking for your family would never search for a child under another mother’s name.”
I felt tears streaming down my face.
“But Cole stayed with me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Mark couldn’t bear to lose both of you.”
I looked at the hospital records scattered across the bed.
All those years.
All that grief.
All those nights I had cried for a child I believed was dead.
“You let me mourn my own son.”
Mark’s eyes filled with tears.
“I was trying to keep you alive.”
“You should have told me!”
“I tried.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“The day you woke up, I was going to tell you.”
His voice broke.
“But someone came to the hospital.”
“Who?”
He looked at me.
“Your father.”
I froze.
“He threatened to take Cole too.”
My knees weakened.
Mark continued.
“He said if I told you the truth, you’d both disappear.”
I shook my head.
“My father wouldn’t do that.”
“He did.”
The voice on the phone suddenly whispered:
“He did.”
I pressed the phone tighter against my ear.
“Dad, where are you?”
No answer.
“Dad?”
The call disconnected.
I immediately called back.
The number no longer existed.
I stared at the screen.
Then I looked at Mark.
“Was that really him?”
Mark nodded slowly.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“He died six years ago.”
“Then who was that?”
Mark didn’t answer.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, a message appeared.
It contained an address.
And beneath it were six words:
Come alone. Bring the hospital records.
I knew the address.
It was the old St. Mary’s maternity wing.
The building had been abandoned years ago.
I looked at Mark.
“We’re going.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand enough.”
I grabbed the metal box.
“We’re finding out the truth tonight.”
An hour later, Mark and I stood outside the abandoned hospital.
The windows were dark.
The corridors smelled of dust and damp concrete.
Every step echoed.
We reached the old maternity ward.
Room 214 was still there.
The number was barely visible above the door.
I stopped.
This was where my life had changed.
Where I’d become a mother.
Where I’d lost a child.
Or thought I had.
Mark opened the door.
Inside was an old desk.
A rusted filing cabinet.
And a single chair.
On the chair sat a brown envelope.
My name was written across it.
I opened it.
Inside were three documents.
The first was my original birth record for the twins.
The second was Stefan’s.
The third was a photograph.
I stared at the photograph.
It showed me.
Eight years younger.
Unconscious in a hospital bed.
Beside me stood Mark.
And beside him stood my father.
But there was someone else.
A nurse.
She was holding a newborn baby.
I recognized her immediately.
She had been the nurse who told me my second baby had died.
I turned to Mark.
“Where is she?”
“She disappeared after that night.”
I looked down at the documents.
Then I noticed something.
A signature.
The nurse had signed the transfer papers.
But underneath her signature was another.
My father’s.
And next to it:
Authorized by Mark Carter.
My heart shattered.
“You signed this.”
Mark nodded.
“I did.”
“You gave away my baby.”
“I saved him.”
“You don’t get to call that saving!”
My voice echoed through the empty ward.
Mark began crying.
“I watched you die on that operating table.”
I stopped.
He continued.
“The doctors couldn’t stop the bleeding. You were unconscious for two days. Your father came to me and told me people were coming for the babies.”
He wiped his face.
“He said they would take both boys.”
“So you gave one away.”
“Yes.”
“And you let me believe he was dead.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
