That afternoon, I dug an old storage box out of the attic.
Inside were Max’s newborn photos.
Mine.
Ethan’s.
I spread them across the dining table.
Max wandered over.
He pointed at one picture.
“That’s me.”
“It is.”
Then he pointed at Lily sleeping in her bassinet.
“That’s not her.”
I closed my eyes.
“Max…”
He wasn’t looking at me.
He was looking at the photographs.
“The baby I saw had eyes like yours.”
“Lily’s eyes are still changing.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“Different eyes.”
Different baby.
The words echoed through my mind.
That evening, after everyone had gone to bed, I quietly opened the folder the hospital had given us.
Birth certificate paperwork.
Vaccination records.
Discharge instructions.
Insurance forms.
Everything looked normal.
Until one sheet slipped onto the floor.
It wasn’t ours.
The name at the top read:
