I Found His Real Mom, But He Broke Down

I was choosing my tenth anniversary gift when my sons preschool called. His teacher said hed fought over a story he wrote. I picked him up, his face full of hurt pride, and took him home.
After calming him, I opened his notebook. The title was shakily written: My Real Mom and My Fake Mom.
The fake mom takes care of me and Daddy. Shes our unpaid maid.
My real mom works far away. Her job is to love me and Daddy.
My hands turned cold holding the paper.
Just then, my husband Simon came out of the shower, wrapped in a towel. He hugged me from behind.
What did our boy write this time?
But when he saw the page, his smile stiffened. His voice tightened as he reached for the book. Its just a childs nonsense. Is his teacher overreacting?
I didnt let go. I turned and looked at the face Id slept beside for ten yearsnow a stranger.
In the living room, Liam watched cartoons, unaware.
If I was the fake mom
Who was the real mom far away?
And the son I carried for nine monthswhere had he really been?
Clara? What are you spacing out for?
Simon waved a hand in front of my face, his voice light and casual. Its our tenth anniversary today, you know. What did you get me? He winked, deftly changing the subject.
I watched him in silence for a long moment before reaching into my purse. I pulled out the box Id prepared and handed it to him.
His face lit up as he took it. He opened it to reveal the limited-edition watch hed been wanting for ages.
Its beautiful! Honey, you have the best taste! He leaned in and kissed my cheek. Will you put it on for me?
I did as he asked, my movements mechanical as I fastened the watch around his wrist.
For ten years, for nearly every important occasion, I had never missed a gift. He, on the other hand, rarely bothered with such details. I had always told myself it was just his personality, that he wasnt good at expressing himself.
But Liams story said something different.
Daddy loves getting presents for my real mom. He says picking out a gift for someone you love is more important than the gift itself.
The innocent words of a child were now a blunt knife, twisting in my heart with every letter.
It wasn't that he was bad at expressing himself.
It was just that I was never the one he wanted to express it to.
Simon I started, the words catching in my throat as I tried to figure out what to say. Are you are you hiding something from me?
His body stiffened. He turned away from me, his face clouded over with irritation.
Clara, are you seriously questioning me? Dont forget, Liam is six years old. Are you really going to take something he scribbled in a notebook seriously?
I wanted to press him, but he had already turned and walked back into the bedroom.
Watching his retreating back, I realized for the first time just how vast the distance between us had grown over ten years.
Late that night, the man beside me was fast asleep. But the words from the notebook, Simons forced smile the images churned in my mind, chasing away any hope of sleep.
I slipped out of bed and crept out of the bedroom.
The door at the end of the hallto Simons studywas slightly ajar. Hed always hated me going in there, and for ten years, I had respected his privacy.
But tonight, some unseen force pulled me toward that door. I pushed it open and stepped inside.
I searched every corner, every drawer, desperate to find a clue, a single thread of an explanation. But I found nothing.
Straightening up, my gaze landed on the picture frame in the center of his desk. It was a photo of the three of us. Simon was holding Liam high up on his shoulders, and I was leaning against him, my face beaming with happiness. To anyone looking at it, we were the perfect, loving family.
I picked up the frame, my fingertips tracing the smiling faces of my husband and son.
Maybe I was just being paranoid. Was I really going to doubt the man who had loved me for a decade, all because of a six-year-olds story?
A wave of guilt washed over me. I sighed, ready to put the frame back and convince myself it was all in my head.
As I moved to set it down, I noticed the base of the frame was loose. I instinctively tried to fix it, but my fingers slipped.
CRACK!
The frame clattered to the floor. I bent down quickly to pick it up.
But as my fingers closed around it, I froze.
The back of the frame wasn't a solid piece of cardboard. Tucked inside was a carefully folded photograph.
It was Simon, looking young and bright, with his arms wrapped around a girl in a white sundress.
Holding my breath, my hands trembling, I turned the photo over.
On the back, in his familiar, bold handwriting, was a single line.
Anna, no matter who I marry, my heart will always be yours.
The date was the day before our wedding.
2
The next morning, after dropping Liam off at preschool, I didnt go to the office. Instead, I drove to the nearest phone carriers store.
Hi, I said, handing over my ID, trying to keep my voice steady. Id like to see a detailed call log for our family plan. The bill seems unusually high lately.
The clerk typed efficiently, and within moments, our call history for the last six months was on the screen. My eyes immediately found it: a number from the neighboring state that appeared over and over again.
The calls were mostly late at night, ranging from ten minutes to over an hour.
I discreetly copied the number down and left.
That night, while Simon was in the shower, he left his phone charging on the nightstand. The screen was locked. I typed in the password we used to share.
Password incorrect.
I then tried his birthday, our anniversary, every significant date I could think of. All incorrect.
Finally, with a self-mocking bitterness, I typed in the date from the back of that photograph.
Password correct.
My heart sank into a cold, dark pit.
I searched his phone, but the number wasn't in his contacts. I found it in his blocked list. How could a blocked number have such a frequent call history?
There was only one explanation: he unblocked it to talk, and then blocked it again immediately after.
A chill crawled up my spine.
I opened his social media apps, searching for more clues. I typed the phone number into the search bar, and a profile popped up. The background photo was a silhouette of a family of three against a sunset. Two adults holding a child's hand. The mans profile was identical to Simons.
I put the phone back exactly where Id found it and called my assistant, Laura.
I need you to run a background check on a phone number. As fast as you can.
After the call, I crept into Liams room. He was fast asleep. Simon always said our son looked just like me, but now, looking closely at his eyes, his nose I couldnt see any of my features in his face.
The splinter of doubt in my heart dug deeper.
When the school sent out a notice for annual health check-ups, I took Liam to the hospital myself. After all the tests were done, I gently plucked a few strands of his hair, making sure to get the follicles, and sealed them carefully in a small plastic bag.
That afternoon, I dropped off the bag, along with a sample of my own hair, at a DNA testing facility.
During the week I waited for the results, Simon started staying out late more often, using guys night as an excuse. Before he left, hed spend an unusual amount of time in front of the mirror, fussing with his hair.
One evening, after he left, I got in my car and followed him.
He drove across town, finally pulling into the parking lot of a secluded spa resort on the outskirts of the city. As Simon got out of his car, a woman in a long dress, who had clearly been waiting for him, walked up to meet him.
I recognized her instantly. It was the woman from the photograph.
Simon casually took her handbag, his other arm wrapping expertly around her waist. He leaned in and whispered something in her ear, and a deep blush spread across her face. After a few more quiet words, they walked into the resort, their bodies pressed close together.
I sat in my car, the heater blasting, but I felt a chill that went straight to the bone.
Just then, my phone buzzed with an email notification from the testing facility.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone. I opened the attachment and scrolled straight to the bottom.
Based on the DNA analysis, Clara Mills is excluded as the biological mother of Liam Scott.
That one sentence was a poisoned blade, skinning me alive.
The son I had raised for six years, the boy I loved more than life itself, was not mine.
The womans face from a moment ago flashed in my mind, her features overlapping with Liams. The resemblance was sickeningly clear. I felt a wave of nausea so strong I thought I was going to be sick.
But I remembered being so careful. The hospital where I gave birth had a reputation for being chaotic, so Id specifically arranged for a private nurse to conduct a paternity test and had hired security to watch over the nursery. The results had been clear, written in black and white. We had our son.
So why why six years later was he someone elses child?
And the baby I carried for nine agonizing months where was he now?
I picked up the phone and dialed my assistant.
Two things, Laura.
First, find out everything you can about the connection between a woman named Anna Ross and my son, Liam.
Second, find my real son. Spare no expense.
Laura was silent on the other end for a beat. Understood, she said, her voice grim. Im on it.
In the days that followed, I went about my life as if nothing had changed. I could even face Simon and pretend everything was normal. But I no longer returned his hugs. At night, I slept in the guest room.
When he asked why, I told him I was stressed with a big project at work and didnt want to disturb him. He looked at me with a flicker of something in his eyes but didnt push it.
A week later, Laura placed a sealed envelope on my desk.
We acquired a DNA sample from Anna Ross through certain channels, she began, her voice low. We ran it against Liams sample.
She paused. The results show a biological mother-daughter relationship.
Even though I had expected it, the confirmation hit me so hard I had to grab the edge of my desk to stay upright.
Six years.
For six years, I had poured every ounce of my love into a child who carried another womans blood.
We also looked into your hospital records from the birth, Laura continued. The only other woman who gave birth on the same day as you was Anna Ross.
She checked in alone. The emergency contact she listed was Simon Scott.
My head snapped up. What about her baby?
Lauras expression was somber as she consulted her notes. There were complications during the delivery. The baby boy she gave birth to he passed away on the third day.
The pieces of the puzzle began to click into place, forming a horrifying picture.
Keep digging, I ordered, my voice raspy. I want every single detail about that baby boy.
Lauras efficiency was remarkable. She quickly managed to track down a retired nurse who had been on duty at the maternity ward that week.
The old nurse glanced around nervously before leaning in to speak. Those two mothers went into labor almost at the same time, she whispered. But that Ross woman, she had a rough time. Three days of labor, and the baby still didnt make it.
She took the cash from the envelope Laura handed her, licked her thumb, and counted the bills with a smack of her lips.
But that that was just the official story. To fool everyone else. But I saw it with my own eyes That Ross woman, she switched the babies herself! Her baby never died! They were all lying!
After dropping her bombshell, the nurse stuffed the envelope into her purse and scurried away, leaving Laura and me frozen in place, a chilling dread washing over us.
My voice was a raw, unrecognizable whisper. Find my son. I dont care what it takes.
A few days later, all the leads pointed to a remote orphanage in the next state. The admission date, the childs ageit all matched.
I couldnt wait another second. I drove the hundreds of miles myself, following the address Laura had given me.
The afternoon sun bathed the orphanages yard, where children were playing in groups. My eyes scanned every face, a frantic hope pounding in my chest.
And then I saw him.
In a corner, far from the other children, a small figure was curled up, his little hands blue from the cold seeping through his threadbare clothes.
The orphanage director noticed my stare and followed my gaze, letting out a soft sigh. Thats Aiden. He was brought here six years ago, covered in bruises. He doesnt talk much. Hes terrified of people.
She shook her head sadly. I cant imagine what that poor child has been through.
In that instant, my heart stopped beating. Even from a distance, I could see my own features reflected in his small, frightened face.
He was my son.
When he needed his mother the most, what was I doing? I was giving all my love, all my devotion, to another womans child.
An all-consuming agony ripped through me. I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted blood, my nails digging into my palms.
Simon. Anna.
You stole my life. You stole my son.
For everything you took from me these past six years, I will make you repay it a thousand times over.

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