he park was nearly empty when I arrived. A cold breeze rustled the branches, scattering golden leaves across the playground. My heart pounded in my chest as I scanned the area.
Then, I saw him.
An older man, hunched over on a bench near the swings. He clutched a worn-out cap in his hands, twisting the fabric nervously. As I approached, he lifted his gaze. His eyes were tired—haunted.
*”You came,”* he said, voice hoarse.
*”Who are you?”* I demanded. *”And what the hell does this mean—’Your son is not your son’? What kind of sick joke is this?”*
He sighed, rubbing his face. *”I wish it were a joke,”* he muttered. *”But it’s the truth.”*
My stomach clenched. *”Explain.”*
He took a deep breath. *”Sixteen years ago, my daughter, Emily, gave birth to a baby boy at St. Mary’s Hospital. She was young, scared… and sick. She died during childbirth.”* He looked down, voice cracking. *”Her baby—my grandson—was taken to the NICU. I wasn’t there. I should have been, but I wasn’t.”*
I frowned. *”I’m sorry for your loss, but what does this have to do with me?”*
His hands gripped the cap tighter. *”That same night, another baby boy was in the NICU—your son. There was… a mix-up.”*
The world seemed to tilt beneath me.
*”A mix-up?”* I echoed, barely able to say the words.
*”Your biological son died that night.”* His voice was almost a whisper. *”And my grandson… he was given to you. Raised as yours. Max is my grandson.”*
I stumbled back, shaking my head. *”No. No, that’s impossible. You’re lying!”*
*”I have proof,”* he said, pulling out an envelope. *”Hospital records. DNA tests. I wanted to come to you sooner, but… I was scared. Then, I got sick myself. I had to tell you before it was too late.”*
I didn’t want to take the envelope. I didn’t want to read what was inside. Because deep down, I knew—this wasn’t just some crazy story.
Robert’s reaction. The way his hands had trembled.
*He knew.*
I staggered away, the weight of reality crushing me. My son—*my Max*—wasn’t mine by blood.
But as I turned, my phone buzzed. A text from Max:
*”Hey, Mom. What’s for dinner? Love you.”*
And in that moment, I knew one thing for certain: No matter what the papers said, no matter where he came from—*Max would always be my son.*
