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.
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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.
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