That afternoon, a woman I assumed was their mother arrived. I recognized her instantly—she’d once stood beside Pete at a corporate party, drink in hand.
She saw me too. Shock flickered across her face, then calculation, then relief.
She took the girls’ hands, steered them toward the door, and pressed a card into my palm. Without looking at me directly, she said, “I know who you are. You should take your daughters back. I was already trying to figure out how to contact you. Come to this address if you want to understand everything. And after that, leave my family alone.”
I sat in my car for fifteen minutes, phone in hand, debating whether to call Pete. The last time I’d heard his voice, he’d told me my daughters were dead—and made it my fault. I wasn’t ready for that voice again.
Instead, I typed the address into my GPS and drove.
The door opened, and Pete stood there. He went pale.
“CAMILA??”
Behind him appeared the woman from the daycare, holding an infant boy. She looked at Pete, then at me, and said calmly, “I’m glad you showed up… finally!”
On the wall behind them hung framed photos: wedding portraits, Pete and the woman at an altar, the girls in matching dresses on what looked like a honeymoon trip.
Alice—the woman—kept her eyes on me. “Maybe it was meant to happen. Maybe fate wanted her to find them.”
Pete snapped, “Find them? What are you talking about?”
“She’s their mother! Maybe it’s time they went back to her.”
I froze. “What did you say?”
Alice looked directly at me. “Those girls… they’re yours. The daughters you were told died.”
Pete’s denial was immediate, but his fear was obvious.
I raised my phone. “Pete, you have thirty seconds to start telling me the truth. If you don’t, the next call I make is to the police. Are those girls my daughters?”
He scoffed nervously. “Don’t be ridiculous, Camila. Those aren’t your daughters.”
I tapped the screen.
“Wait!” he shouted, lunging forward. “Camila, stop! Please. I’ll tell you everything.”
Finally, he sat down, head in his hands, and confessed.
He had been having an affair with Alice for eight months before I got pregnant. When the twins were born, he calculated the costs—alimony, child support, medical recovery—and decided he didn’t want to pay. He wanted the girls, but not with me.
So while I was unconscious, he enlisted two doctors and a nurse—friends of his—to falsify the hospital records. Money changed hands, paperwork was altered, and our healthy baby girls were discharged to him as though they had never existed as mine.
I woke up to grief that was never real.
Alice listened silently, then admitted she had begun resenting the twins after her own son was born. She wanted Pete to focus on their baby, not the girls. One night, she showed the twins my photo and told them the truth: that I was their real mother.
I asked where they were.
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