The knock at the door came just as the birthday party was in full swing. The sound was so sharp that a few pink balloons near the ceiling swayed nervously.
“Mum, there are still guests!” shouted Emily, clapping her hands.
James was lighting the fifth candle on the enormous cake. The house buzzed like a hivechildren laughing, shrieking, music playing. It had been five years of pure, hard-won happiness with my daughter. I opened the door, ready to greet another set of parents.
Instead, a woman stood there. Just a woman with a tired face and faded eyes. She held no gift in her hands.
“I need to speak to Veronica Solway.”
“Im listening,” I said instinctively, leaving only a crack in the door. The noise of the celebration spilled out into the hall.
She didnt try to peer inside. Instead, she pulled a photo from her bag and held it out.
The glossy picture showed a smiling little girlvaguely like my Emily, but dressed in an unfamiliar blue dress, her hair in neat plaits Id never styled.
“What is this? A joke?”
“Her name is Sophie. She turned five today,” the woman said flatly, her voice devoid of emotion. A chill ran down my spine. “Shes my daughter.”
I tried to slam the door.
“Get out, or Ill call the police.”
She shoved her hand against the door, her fingers thin but strong.
“St. Marys Maternity Hospital. March fifth. Five years ago. You gave birth the same day I did.”
The air grew thick. Breathing became difficult.
“I dont know what youre talking about.”
“Neither did I. Until last month.” She tucked the photo back into her bag. “Sophie needed a blood transfusiona rare type. Neither mine nor my husbands matched. We did the test.”
Each word struck like a hammer against glassthe glass separating me from my world.
“Shes not my biological daughter. And yoursisnt yours.”
The childrens laughter behind me suddenly sounded deafening, false.
“The hospital mixed up the tags. Our babies were born at the same time. They were… switched. Ive been raising your child. And youmine.”
She looked me straight in the eyes, her gaze heavy as wet tarmac.
“Im not blaming you. I dont want anything from youexcept one thing.”
The silence stretched, consuming the space between us.
“Ive come to take my daughter back.”
The world tilted. James came up behind me, his hand on my shoulder.
“Veronica, whats going on? Who is this?”
I couldnt answer. I stared at this womanher grey coat, the cracks in her lipsand saw a thief. Not one stealing an object, but my entire life, ripping it out by the roots.
“Here.” The stranger handed me a sheet of paper, folded into quarters. “A copy of my test results. And my solicitors number. I dont want a scene. Not yet.”
She turned and walked away without looking back.
I stood frozen in the doorway, clutching the icy slip of paper. From the living room came a loud chorus of “Happy Birthday,” the cheerful voices sounding like a verdict. I slammed the door. Leaned against it. Slid to the floor. The paper in my hand felt poisonous.
“Veronica, what the hell?” James snatched it from me.
His face shifted as he readfrom confusion to fury.
“This is rubbish. Some con artist trying to make money off a childs birthday. Disgusting.”
He crumpled the paper and threw it aside.
The party continued. I smiled, accepted gifts, cut the cake. Every “Grow big and strong, Emily!” echoed hollowly in my ears. I watched my daughterher laughter, her dimplesdesperately searching for traces of myself, of James.
When the last guest left, the house fell into an odd, ringing silence. James picked up the crumpled sheet. Smoothed it out.
“A solicitor…” He found the number. “Well expose this fraud.”
He dialed, putting the call on speaker.
A mans voice answeredcalm, professional. He introduced himself as Richard Ashworth. Confirmed he represented the interests of Helen Wright.
“My client isnt seeking financial compensation,” he said crisply. “This is about correcting an injustice regarding the children.”
“What injustice?” James exploded. “This is blackmail!”
“Mr. Harper, if you believe that, we can proceed to court immediately. Demand a compulsory DNA test. Trust me, a judge will grant it. It will only prolong the processand traumatise the children.”
No threat. Just fact. Cold, inescapable.
“Helen prefers to settle this privately. Take your own test. If it proves us wrong, shell apologise and disappear. If notwe negotiate.”
James hung up without a word.
He looked at me. The certainty in his eyes was gone. Only fear remainedthe same fear I felt.
That night, I crept into Emilys room. She lay asleep, arms flung wide, clutching her stuffed rabbit. I sat on the edge of the bed. In the dim light, her face looked both achingly familiar and… 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 a serious, unchildlike gaze, two tight plaits. She sat at a table, assembling a puzzle. And in the tilt of her head, the curve of her brows, the stubborn set of her lipsshe was James. Not just a resemblance. His copy.
The caption read: “Sophie loves puzzles. What about your daughter?”
I dropped the phone. Shook violently. This wasnt a scam. It was an invasion. She didnt just want Emily. She was showing me what Id losta child Id never known.
I typed back, fingers trembling: “What do you want?”
The reply came instantly.
“I want to talk. Not as enemies. As mothers. Tomorrow. Noon. By the pond in Regents Park. Come alone.”
I arrived fifteen minutes early. Helen was already there, seated on a bench by the water.
Today, she wore a stern dress, hair neatly styled. She didnt look like a victim of circumstancebut someone attending a business meeting.
“I knew youd come,” she said when I sat beside her.
I stayed silent.
“I havent slept in a month. Not since I got the results.” She watched the ducks on the pond. “I keep wonderinghow is she? Your daughter. My Sophie. Probably has a lovely room. More toys than a shop.”
No bitterness in her voice. Just envy. Cold, distilled.
“And mineyour Emilywe live in a one-bed flat. My husband works at a factory. We cant give her what you can. But we love her.”
“What are you proposing?” My voice was hoarse. I still clung to hopemaybe weekends together? Maybe godmothers to each others children? Foolish.
Helen turned to me. Her faded eyes were piercing.
“Im not proposing anything. Im informing you. My solicitor is preparing papers to petition for the childrens exchange.”
“Exchange?!” I choked. “Youre talking about them like objects.”
“How else?” She smiled. “Its a mistake. A medical error that needs fixing. The sooner, the better.”
She reached into her bag, pulled out her phone.
“I want to show you something.”
A video played. The same girl with plaitsSophie. Sitting on a sofa. Helens voice off-camera asked: “Sophie, do you know youll have a new mummy soon? Rich, beautiful. Shell buy you anything you want.”
The girl on screen frowned. “I have a mummy. You.”
“See?” Helen whispered, leaning close. “Children adapt. Emily will too.”
Then she delivered the final blowthe one that shattered everything.
“Especially when she learns youre not her real mother. Just some stranger who lied to her for five years. Can you imagine how that will break her? To find out her whole life is a lie.”
Something inside me snapped. Deafeningly. All hope of understanding, compassion, a peaceful resolutiongone.
I saw her true face. She didnt want justice. She wanted my life. My happiness. My pain.
I stood.
She looked up at me, expecting tears, hysterics.
But I was perfectly calm.
“Youre right,” I said, my voice icy. “Mistakes should be corrected. Well do the DNA test. Me, James, Emily. At the best private clinic. Supervised by the best solicitors.”
I looked down at her. Her smile faltered.
“And when we have the results, well talk again. Youll tell me everything. About your husband who works at a factory. Your one-bed flat. Every day my daughter spent with you.”
I leaned in, inches from her face.
“And if I find one reason to believe my child
