The knock on the door came just as the birthday party reached its peak. A woman stood on the doorstep, her face drawn and tired, her eyes faded. She claimed to be the real mother of the child.
The doorbell rang so sharply that the pink balloons trembled beneath the ceiling.
“Mum, the guests are here!” shouted Polly, clapping her hands.
Daniel was lighting the fifth candle on the enormous cake. The house hummed like a beehivechildrens laughter, shrieks, music. Five years. Five years of pure, hard-won happiness. I opened the door, ready to greet another parent.
Instead, a woman stood there. Just a woman, hollow-eyed, holding no gift.
“I need to speak to Veronica Whitmore.”
“Im listening,” I said, instinctively closing the door slightly, leaving only a crack. The noise of the party spilled out behind me.
She didnt try to peer inside. Instead, she reached into her bag and handed me a photograph.
A little girl smiled up from the glossy print. She looked vaguely like my daughterbut her blue dress was unfamiliar, and the braids coiled tight in a way Id never styled Pollys hair.
“What is this? A joke?”
“Her name is Emily. She turned five today,” the woman said, her voice flat, emotionless. A chill ran down my spine. “Shes my daughter.”
I tried to slam the door.
“Get out, or Ill call the police.”
She blocked it with her hand. Her fingers were thin but strong.
“St. Marys Maternity Ward. March fifth. Five years ago. You gave birth the same day I did.”
The air thickened, sticky and hard to breathe.
“I dont understand what youre saying.”
“Neither did I. Not until last month.” She tucked the photo back into her bag. “Emily needed a blood transfusion. A rare type. Neither mine nor my husbands matched. We did a test.”
Every word was a hammer tap against glassthe fragile barrier between me and the world as I knew it.
“She isnt my biological daughter. And yoursisnt yours.”
The laughter behind me suddenly sounded deafening, false.
“The hospital mixed up the tags. Our babies were born at the same time. They were swapped. Ive been raising your child. Youve been raising mine.”
She looked me square in the eyes. Her gaze was heavy, like wet asphalt.
“Im not blaming you. I dont want anything from youexcept one thing.”
The silence stretched, filling the space between us.
“Ive come to take my daughter back.”
The world tilted. Daniel stepped up behind me, his hand on my shoulder.
“Veronica, whats going on? Who is this?”
I couldnt answer. I stared at this woman, her grey coat, the cracks in her lips, and saw a thiefnot here to steal an object, but to steal my life, rip it out by the roots.
“Here,” the stranger said, handing me a folded sheet of paper. “A copy of my DNA test. And my solicitors number. I dont want a scene. Not yet.”
She turned and walked away without another glance.
I stood frozen, clutching the icy slip of paper. From the living room, a chorus of childrens voices sang, *Happy birthday to you!* It sounded like a verdict. I slammed the door, pressed my back against it, and slid down to the floor. The paper in my hand burned like poison.
“Veronica, what the hell is this?” Daniel snatched it from me.
His face shifted as he readconfusion, then anger.
“This is rubbish. Some scammer trying to cash in on a childs birthday. Pathetic.”
He crumpled the paper and threw it into the corner.
The party went on. I smiled, accepted gifts, cut the cake. Every *”Happy birthday, Polly!”* echoed hollowly in my ears. I watched my daughterher laugh, her dimplesdesperately searching for traces of myself, of Daniel.
When the last guest left, the house fell into a strange, ringing silence. Daniel picked up the crumpled sheet, smoothed it out.
“A solicitor” He found the number. “Lets get this fraud exposed.”
He dialed, putting it on speaker.
A mans voice answered, calm and professional. He introduced himselfRoger Ashford. Confirmed he represented Helen Carter.
“My client isnt seeking financial compensation,” he said crisply. “Only justice for the children.”
“Justice?” Daniel snapped. “This is blackmail!”
“Mr. Whitmore, if you believe that, we can file immediately for a court-ordered DNA test. The judge will grant it. But dragging this out will only traumatise the children.”
No threat. Just fact. Cold and inevitable.
“Helen is offering to settle this quietly. Take your test. If it confirms our claim, well negotiate. If not, shell apologise and disappear from your lives.”
Daniel hung up without a word.
He looked at me. The certainty in his eyes was gone. Only fear. The same fear I felt.
That night, I crept into Pollys room. She slept sprawled out, clutching a stuffed rabbit. I sat on the edge of her bed. In the half-light, her face looked familiar and yet foreign. I stroked her hair, breathed in her scent. My girl. Mine.
Then my phone buzzed. Unknown number. A message.
Just one photo.
A girl with serious eyes and two tight braids. She sat at a table, assembling a puzzle. The tilt of her head, the stubborn set of her mouthit was Daniel. Not just resemblance. His copy.
Underneath: *Emily loves puzzles. Does your daughter?*
I dropped the phone. Shaking. This wasnt a scam. It was an invasion. She didnt just want to take Polly. She was showing me what Id lose. A child Id never known.
I typed back, fingers clumsy: *What do you want?*
The reply came instantly.
*I want to talk. Not as enemies. As mothers. Tomorrow. At the park by the pond. Noon. Come alone.*
I arrived fifteen minutes early. Helen was already there, sitting on a bench by the water.
Today, she wore a severe dress, hair neatly pinned. She didnt look like a victim. She looked like a woman here to negotiate.
“I knew youd come,” she said, no greeting.
I stayed silent.
“I havent slept in a month. Not since I got the results.” She watched the ducks drift across the pond. “I imagine her. Your daughter. My Emily. She must have a lovely room. More toys than a shop.”
No bitterness in her voice. Just envy. Cold and distilled.
“And mine your Polly we live in a one-bed flat. My husband works at the factory. We cant give her what you can. But we love her.”
“What are you proposing?” My voice was hoarse. I clung to hopeweekend visits? Godparents? Foolishness.
Helen turned to me. Her faded eyes sharp.
“Im not proposing anything. Im informing you. My solicitor is preparing papers to petition for an exchange.”
“Exchange?!” I choked. “Youre talking about them like objects.”
“How else should I talk?” She smiled. “Its a mistake. A medical error that needs correcting. The sooner, the better for everyone.”
She reached into her bag, pulled out her phone.
“I want to show you something.”
A video played. The same girl with braids. Emily. Sitting on a sofa. Helens voice off-camera: *”Emily, do you know youll have a new mummy soon? Rich, pretty. Shell buy you anything.”*
The girl on screen frowned. *”I have a mummy. You.”*
“See?” Helen whispered, leaning in. “Children adapt. Polly will too.”
Then she struck the final blow. The one that shattered everything.
“Especially when she learns youre not her real mother. Just a stranger who lied for five years. Can you imagine how that will hurt her? To know her whole life is a lie?”
Something inside me snapped. Deafening. Every hope for understanding, for compromise, turned to dust.
I saw her true face. She didnt want justice. She wanted my life. My happiness. My pain.
I stood.
She looked up at me, waiting for tears, hysterics.
But I was ice.
“Youre right,” I said, voice steady. “Mistakes should be fixed. Well do the DNA test. Me, Daniel, Polly. At the best private clinic. With the best solicitors watching.”
I looked down at her. She stopped smiling.
“And when we have the results, well talk again. And youll tell me everything. About your husband who *works at the factory.* About your one-bed flat. Every day my daughter spent with you.”
I leaned close, my face inches from hers.
“And if I find one reason to believe my child was unhappy there Ill destroy you. Not