Then came the miracle. Two blue lines. Pregnancy became a tightrope of fear and faith, but each scan brought Luna’s heartbeat, fierce and steady, declaring her place in the world.
After seventeen hours of labor, she arrived—flushed, perfect, with thick dark hair and luminous hazel eyes. When she was laid in my arms, the world fell away. Caleb wept openly, whispering “She’s perfect,” words that stitched my battered soul.
The next morning, Vivien came.
In pristine beige, she swept into the room and studied Luna with an unnerving stillness. No smile. No request to hold her. Just scrutiny. The hairs on my neck rose. This wasn’t affection—it was evaluation.
I passed Luna to Caleb. Vivien advanced, arms crossed, gaze unflinching. Then she dropped her bomb.
“This baby can’t be ours.”
The warmth drained. A nurse slipped away quietly, avoiding the storm.
“Mom, what are you saying?” Caleb’s voice cracked.
Her tone lowered, conspiratorial. “Look at her, Caleb. Hazel eyes. Olive skin. She doesn’t resemble anyone. She is not a Monroe. She cannot be ours.”
The cruelty of the claim stunned me. To speak it here, while my body still ached from labor, was monstrous. Caleb’s glance wavered, the question he dared not ask trembling in his eyes. Could there be truth?
