He said he was busy.
I strapped my baby to my chest and went alone, expecting a routine conversation. Maybe an awkward apology delivered through professional language. Maybe reassurance that everything was fine.
She didn’t sit down.
She looked straight at me and said, in a low, steady voice, “You need to call the police.”
For a moment, I thought I’d misheard her.
“The police?” I asked, panic rising fast. “Why? Did Ryan do something?”
She placed the envelope on her desk without opening it. “I want to be very careful with my words,” she said. “This is not about relationship problems. This concerns a potential crime. And your baby’s safety.”
My heart began to pound so hard I could feel it in my throat. “Is the test wrong?” I asked. “Was there a mistake?”
“The DNA results are back,” she said gently. “They are not what anyone expected. The baby is not biologically related to your husband.”
For half a second, relief tried to surface. If that were true, Ryan would look foolish, and this nightmare might finally end.
“And,” she continued, “the baby is not biologically related to you either.”
The room tilted.
I grabbed the edge of the chair, my legs suddenly weak. “That’s impossible,” I whispered. “I gave birth to him.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I am not questioning your experience. But genetically, there is no maternal match. When results look like this, there are only two possibilities. A laboratory error, or a baby mix-up.”
My mouth went dry. “A mix-up? As in… switched babies?”
“It’s rare,” she said, “but it does happen. Especially during very busy shifts. We immediately verified the lab’s chain of custody. All samples were correctly labeled and processed.”
I pressed my hand to my chest, struggling to breathe. “So what does this mean?”
Without realizing it, I tightened my arms around the baby carrier. He slept peacefully, unaware that the ground beneath my life had completely given way.
“Are you saying someone took my baby?” I asked.
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