The delivery room felt like a nightmare—blinding lights, muffled voices, and pain so intense I slipped in and out of consciousness. When I finally woke, they placed my son Lucas in my arms. “You have a beautiful baby boy,” the nurse said. I believed he was my only child.
For twenty years, I raised Lucas alone after his father left us. He grew into a kind, bright young man, and I thought our story was complete. Until the day we walked into a bookstore.
Across the aisle stood a boy who looked exactly like Lucas—same eyes, same stance. My breath caught. Lucas was beside me, so who was this? Trembling, I approached him. His name was Marco. His birthday? April 18. The same as Lucas.
That night, I dug through old hospital records and found a note: “Second newborn — deceased.” But something wasn’t right. After weeks of calls and digging, the truth surfaced: a mix-up. Another baby had died that day—not mine. Marco was my son.
We met his adoptive parents, hesitant but hopeful. Now, we share holidays, dinners, and a bond that time couldn’t erase. Marco calls me his “second mom.” And every time I see him, I know—love finds its way home, even twenty years late.
