Part 2: The Child They Stole From Me

I spent three years believing my sister had stolen my fiancé. Then I discovered she might have stolen my daughter too.

The morning after my mother warned me to stay away from Olivia’s child, I drove from Portland to Boston with my medical records on the pᴀssenger seat. I hadn’t slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same words printed across the hospital report.

Pregnancy status: 19 weeks.

I had been pregnant when the accident happened. Someone had known. Someone had signed papers on my behalf. And for three years, nobody had told me.

My name is Emily Carter, and that morning I stopped believing my family had simply betrayed me. I began to believe they had planned something far worse.

At St. Anne’s Medical Center, I requested a meeting with the hospital’s medical records director. A woman named Patricia Lewis reviewed my file for nearly twenty minutes before asking whether I had ever received a discharge summary from the obstetrics department.

“No,” I answered. “I didn’t even know I was pregnant.”

She looked troubled.

“Miss Carter, your records indicate your pregnancy continued after you regained consciousness.”

I stared at her.

“That’s impossible.”

She turned the screen toward me. A medical note had been entered two days before I woke up. It documented a prenatal examination and a recommendation for continued monitoring.

“But nobody told me,” I whispered.

Patricia hesitated.

“Your mother was listed as your authorized representative while you were incapacitated. We need to investigate why this information wasn’t properly communicated once you recovered.”

I felt sick.

“Where is the rest of my pregnancy file?”

She clicked through several screens.

Then she stopped.

“Some documents were transferred to a private medical facility.”

“Which one?”

“Westbridge Women’s Center.”

I knew that name.

Olivia had given birth to Charlotte there.

Three hours later, I was standing outside my sister’s house in Brookline. I hadn’t planned to confront her, but I couldn’t drive another mile without looking into her eyes.

Olivia opened the door wearing a cream sweater. She looked older, but otherwise exactly as I remembered.

Her smile disappeared when she saw me.

“Emily?”

“Where’s Charlotte?”

She stepped backward.

“What are you doing here?”

“I know I was pregnant.”

The color drained from her face.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then a little girl appeared behind her.

She had dark curls, wide brown eyes, and a small dimple in her left cheek.

The same dimple my father used to say I had inherited from his mother.

“Mommy?” the little girl asked.

Olivia immediately moved in front of her.

“Charlotte, go upstairs.”

But I couldn’t stop looking at the child.

She was nearly three.

The dates matched.

“Is she mine?” I whispered.

Olivia’s eyes filled with tears.

“Emily, please leave.”

“Is Charlotte my daughter?”

She began shaking her head.

“You don’t understand what happened.”

“Then explain it.”

Before she could answer, Daniel appeared in the hallway.

He stopped when he saw me.

For three years, I had imagined what I would say if we ever met again. Now I could barely speak.

“Did you know?” I asked.

He looked at Olivia.

“Know what?”

“That I was pregnant when I was in the hospital.”

His expression changed.

“Emily, that pregnancy didn’t survive.”

The words struck me.

“Who told you that?”

“Your mother.”

I looked at Olivia.

She had gone completely still.

Daniel turned toward her.

“Olivia?”

She covered her mouth.

And suddenly, I understood that my former fiancé might not know the whole truth either.

I reached into my bag and removed the medical records.

“Someone transferred my pregnancy file to Westbridge. The same clinic where Charlotte was born.”

Daniel took the papers.

His eyes moved across the dates.

Then he looked at his wife.

“Tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

Olivia started crying.

“I wanted to tell you.”

Daniel stepped away from her.

“Tell me what?”

She looked at Charlotte, who was watching silently from the staircase.

“Not in front of her.”

Daniel asked the little girl to go upstairs, then closed the living room door.

Olivia sank onto the couch.

“After Emily’s accident, Mom told me the doctors were worried about the pregnancy. She said Emily might never recover, and the baby needed someone to protect her.”

I stared at her.

“What are you saying?”

“Mom arranged everything. She said the hospital could transfer the pregnancy to a specialist who would help keep the baby safe.”

I shook my head.

“Olivia, I woke up still pregnant.”

She looked confused.

“What?”

I showed her the records.

For the first time, genuine fear crossed her face.

“That’s not what Mom told me.”

Daniel sat down slowly.

“Olivia, whose child is Charlotte?”

She looked at him.

Then she whispered, “I don’t know anymore.”

The room fell silent.

I wanted to scream. Instead, I picked up my medical folder and walked toward the door.

“Emily,” Daniel called after me.

I turned.

“If Charlotte is my daughter, I will find out. And nobody in this family is going to stop me.”

That evening, Patricia Lewis called from St. Anne’s. The hospital had located additional records from Westbridge, including a birth-related document that had been filed under a different patient identification number.

“Emily,” she said carefully, “there is something you need to see in person.”

“Is it about Charlotte?”

“Yes. But there’s another child mentioned in the records.”

My heart began pounding.

“Another child?”

Patricia hesitated.

“The documents reference a twin pregnancy.”

I gripped the phone.

“Twins?”

“That’s what the original records suggest. We need to confirm the information, but the file contains two separate neonatal identification numbers.”

I couldn’t breathe.

For three years, I had believed I had lost everything.

Now I was being told there might have been two babies.

“Where is the other child?” I whispered.

“I don’t know yet.”

A message appeared on my phone while we were speaking.

It came from an unknown number.

Emily, your mother knows where the second baby is. But don’t ask Olivia. She was never supposed to know there were two.

Attached was a pH๏τograph.

Two newborn babies lay side by side beneath pink hospital blankets.

One wore a bracelet marked C. Brooks.

The other wore a bracelet marked E. Carter.

And standing behind them, smiling at the camera, was my mother.

I stared at the pH๏τograph until my vision blurred.

Then another message arrived.

If you want to know which baby Olivia took home, come to Westbridge tomorrow. Come alone.

I looked at the two tiny faces.

For the first time since waking from my coma, I wasn’t wondering why my sister had married Daniel.

I was wondering how many children my family had taken from me.

And whether one of them was still waiting to be found.

Part 3 is coming.

Emily has discovered evidence of twins, but only one child grew up in Olivia’s home. The final DNA results are about to reveal who Charlotte’s biological parents really are—and why Emily’s mother hid the existence of a second baby for three years.