I’d carried him through pregnancy.
I’d endured a difficult delivery.
I’d held him in the hospital.
I’d watched him grow.
How could anyone claim Eleanor had given birth to him?
Then I remembered something.
The delivery.
The emergency surgery.
The nurses telling me I had lost consciousness.
Henry appearing beside my bed with our newborn son.
The way he’d refused to discuss what happened during the operation.
A cold feeling spread through me.
“Trevor, where did Malcolm get that information?”
Trevor was silent.
Then he whispered:
“He showed me the original hospital records.”
I could barely breathe.
“And?”
My son’s voice broke.
“Mother, there were two babies born that night.”
I stopped breathing.
Two?
Trevor continued.
“Both boys.”
My hands shook.
“One was registered to you.”
I gripped the phone.
“And the other?”
A terrible silence followed.
Then Trevor whispered:
“To Eleanor.”
I couldn’t move.
He began sobbing harder.
“Malcolm says the hospital switched them.”
