The results confirmed the same thing. For two weeks I lived as if in a fog. My husband was silent, looking at me with suspicion, and I cried at night while holding my son.
We began an investigation. We searched for old hospital records, tried to find doctors and nurses who had worked there at the time. Much had been lost, but little by little the picture became clear.
Two months later we were told: in our maternity hospital a baby swap had indeed occurred. Our real child had been mistakenly given to another family, and we were handed someone else’s boy. The scariest thing was that such cases had already happened at this hospital.
The management had tried to cover up the mistakes, but we found evidence. I didn’t know how to go on. The son I loved with all my heart was not my blood.
But he was still my child. My husband needed time to come to terms with it. And somewhere in this world our real child is living — and perhaps he too is growing up in a stranger’s family.
