“Give me my son,” Spencer demanded, stepping closer to Rosa, his voice firm but tinged with desperation.
Rosa shook her head. “He’s not your son.” The words hung heavily in the air, a truth that shattered my reality.
“He’s not your son,” I echoed internally, my heart dropping as I processed the weight of her statement.
The room fell dead silent. My breath came in quick gasps as I dropped my phone onto the bed, the screen still illuminating the chaos unfolding. Matthew. My baby. My Matthew. Spencer slowly turned toward his mother, the color draining from his face.
Eleanor’s reaction was swift and cruel. She slapped Rosa across the face, the sound sharp enough to wake the dead. Matthew cried out, startling me from my paralysis. I sprinted barefoot down the hallway, reaching for the nursery door. But just before I could push it open, another voice broke through the tension—the voice of Rosa, sobbing.
“Ms. Valerie doesn’t know anything! You made her believe her first baby died... and now you want to use the second one to finish what you started!”
First baby? My step faltered. I never had another baby. Or at least, that’s what I had been told.
The Breaking Point
I threw the nursery door open, and everything came into view. Rosa stood there, tears streaming down her face, Matthew clutched tightly to her chest. Spencer’s eyes were wide with panic, pale like a ghost. Eleanor scrambled to hide the medical bag behind her back, a defensive gesture that made my stomach churn.
“Valerie,” Spencer stammered. “Honey, it’s not what it looks like.”
The truth hung in the air, thick and suffocating. My eyes landed on the hospital bracelet inside the open silver case. “What baby?” I demanded, my voice steadier than my heart.
Rosa couldn’t answer, her lips trembling, but Eleanor stepped forward with a cold, twisted smile. “The one that should have stayed dead.”
I felt the world tilt beneath my feet. My heart raced as the realization hit me like a brick. That wasn’t just a threat—it was a confession. Everything I thought I knew was wrong. I stumbled backward, grasping for clarity, for understanding, but it was slipping through my fingers.
As if on cue, my phone buzzed again in the other room. One of my hidden cameras had transmitted another alert from the basement. Motion detected. My hands trembled as I grabbed my phone, opening the feed with shaky breaths.
On the screen was an old, rusty crib, and inside sat a little boy, maybe five years old. He looked up at the camera, his eyes a mirror image of Matthew’s. I froze, heart pounding as he whispered, “Mom...”
