I was told one of my twin boys died during childbirth. I raised Stefan alone, never telling him he once had a brother.
Five years later, during a Sunday walk, Stefan pointed to a boy in the park and said, “He was in your belly with me.”
The child looked exactly like him—same curls, same features, same crescent-shaped birthmark on his chin.
The boy’s mother turned out to be the nurse from my delivery room.
She finally admitted the truth: my second baby hadn’t died. He was small but alive. She falsified records and gave him to her sister, who couldn’t have children, convincing her that I had given him up.
A DNA test confirmed it. Eli was my son.
I was furious. Five years had been stolen from me. But when I saw the twins together—laughing, moving in sync, instinctively bonded—I knew I couldn’t tear them apart again.
Instead of revenge, I chose resolution.
We arranged joint custody, therapy, and complete honesty. The nurse lost her license and faced legal consequences, but my focus stayed on my boys.
Now, Stefan and Eli are growing up together, knowing the truth.
I lost five years. But I refused to let my sons lose each other, too.