I didn't expect to get the call from my son's teacher while I was picking a tenth-anniversary gift for my husband. It seemed like Rob had gotten into a fight with a classmate over an essay. I rushed to the school and picked him up. It broke my heart to see his little face puffed up with frustration. Once we were home, I soothed him on the couch, and he showed me what he wrote. The title read, "My Real and Fake Mom." His handwriting was crooked and uneven. "The fake mom takes care of me and Dad. She's like a free housekeeper." "The real mom works far away, but she's the one who truly loves me and Dad." I couldn't continue the reading, as my fingers failed to turn the page. William Jones, my dear husband, had just stepped out of the bathroom. He was wrapped in a towel like usual and hugged me from behind. "What did he write?" He asked. And the next second, his smile froze awkwardly when he saw the words. His voice also tightened as he reached for the notebook. "You won't take a kid's words seriously, will you? The teacher's just overreacting." I didn't let go. I turned my head and looked at the man I had loved for ten years. Suddenly, he seemed completely unfamiliar to me. I could hear Rob watching his cartoons in the living room. If I was the "fake mom" in his essay… Then who was the real one? And if Rob was not the one I gave birth to… Then where had my real child been for all these years? *** "Jennifer, what are you staring at?" William waved his hand in front of my face, his tone went casual again. "It's our tenth wedding anniversary today. So, what's for this year?" His look was soft and easy, and I'd rather not have noticed how skillfully he steered the conversation. I stayed silent for a long moment before taking the small box out from my bag and giving it to him. He opened it with delight—a limited-edition watch he had been eyeing for months. "This is beautiful! You've got great taste, honey!" He pulled me close and kissed my cheek. "Will you help me?" He stretched out his arm. I reached out and fastened the watch onto his wrist. Ten years of marriage. I had never forgotten preparing gifts for him on special days. And yet, he rarely did the same for me. I found excuses for him that he wasn't expressive in nature. But then there was Rob's essay. "Dad loves giving gifts to the real mom the most because, he says, the process of preparing a gift is more meaningful than the gift itself." The innocent words stabbed straight into my heart like a knife, cutting my flesh into pieces. So it wasn't that he couldn't express himself… It was that all his care had never been for me. "William…" I struggled to speak, choosing my words carefully. "Is there anything you want to tell me?" He paused and turned away, retorting with irritation. "Jennifer, what are you suggesting? Rob is only six, he doesn't even know what he's saying himself." I wanted to say more, but he had already turned back toward the bedroom. For the first time in ten years, his indifferent look finally made me realize we had never truly been close to each other. Late at night, he slept soundly beside me. But the words in that essay, William's awkward smile… All those images just kept replaying in my mind and taking away my sleep. I rose quietly and stepped out of the bedroom. I saw light at the end of the hallway, turned out the door to William's study was slightly ajar. He hated it when I went in uninvited, and I respected that for all the time. But tonight… something compelled me to open the door. I searched every corner, hoping for a clue, but found nothing. And my eyes eventually landed on the photo that was placed in the center of his desk. It was three of us, a happy family that everyone envies. William held Rob on his shoulders, and I leaned on his side, smiling as if I got everything I wanted for life. Love seemed to have truly existed, and no one would doubt it. I ran my fingers over the faces of my husband and kid. Maybe I was overthinking… Maybe I should not let a six-year-old's words shake my trust in the man that I had shared ten years with. Guilt and self-reproach flooded me. I sighed and was about to set the frame back in place… Somehow I noticed that the frame's base was slightly loose, so I reached out but the whole frame just slipped away from my fingers. Crash! The frame fell to the floor. I wanted to pick it up, but I just froze mid-motion. As I found out the back of the frame was not some sort of blank board, but a photo. In the picture, William was standing in the sunlight, his face young and enchanting. In his arms, it was a girl in a white dress. I held my breath but my body was still trembling. I couldn't remember how I managed to turn the photo over. And it took me no effort to recognize Williams's handwriting at a glance: "Dear Sarah. My dearest Sarah Anderson. No matter who I marry, my heart will always belong to you." How pathetic, what stung my eyes the most was actually the date he left in the corner. This was written on the very day before our wedding.
The next morning, after dropping Rob off at school, I didn't head to the office like I usually did. Instead, I drove to the nearest mobile service hall. I tried so hard to keep my voice as steady as possible when talking to the clerk. "Hi, could you help me check my family phone bills over the past few months? The charges seem a bit odd." He worked quickly and soon pulled up the call records from the last six months. One number immediately stood out. It appeared far too often and was always coming in from a neighboring town. Most of the calls were made late at night, lasting anywhere from ten minutes to over an hour. I wrote down the number quietly and left. That evening, William left his phone charging on the nightstand and went to shower. The screen was locked, so I entered the password we used to share. Incorrect. Then I tried his birthday. Our anniversary. A series of numbers tied to memories only we were supposed to know. Every attempt failed. And I couldn't tell how ironic it was when I laid my last hope on the eye-watering date written on the back of that photo. Access granted. My heart sank. I searched through his call history. The number wasn't saved in his contacts. Instead, I found it on his blocked list. A blocked number… with such frequent call records? There was only one explanation. He would block the number from time to time after they contacted each other. A chill crept up my spine. I went through his social media, looking for more traces. When I entered the number into the search bar, an account popped up. I finally got it. In the picture over the top, I saw three figures at sunset. A couple with a kid, holding each other's hands so tightly. And the man's silhouette looked hauntingly familiar. Too familiar that I could straightforwardly call his name. I put the phone back and called my assistant, Susan. "Susan," I said softly, "help me investigate a number. As fast as you can." *** After hanging up, I walked silently into Rob's room. He was sleeping soundly. William used to say our son looked just like me. But now, as I studied him carefully—his eyes, his nose—I couldn't find a single feature that resembled mine. The pain dug deeper and deeper, never giving me a moment's relief. A few days later, the school scheduled a full physical checkup for the students. I went to the hospital with Rob myself. After all the examinations were done, I plucked a few strands of his hair and sealed them carefully in a plastic bag. That afternoon, I sent the sample, along with my own, to a testing agency. The results would not be back until a week later, and all I could do was anxiously wait while enduring William's more and more frequent late returns, which he claimed were made to see friends. Before leaving, he'd linger in front of the mirror, fixing his hair with excessive care. One night, after he left, I followed him. My car trailed his across half the city until he finally stopped at a hot spring resort on the outskirts. As William stepped out of the car, a woman in a long dress was already waiting for him. I recognized her instantly. She was the woman from the photo. William took her handbag as if he had done it a thousand times before, and his arm wrapped around her waist with practiced ease. He leaned down and whispered something into her ear. Her face flushed instantly, red all the way to her ears. After a few more murmured words, the two pressed close to each other and walked into the resort together. I stayed in my car. The heater was on full blast, yet I felt cold to the bone. Just then, my phone buzzed. An email—from the testing agency. My hands shook so badly that I could barely hold the phone. I opened the attachment and flipped straight to the last page. "Based on DNA testing, Jennifer Jones is excluded as the biological mother of Rob Jones." Before this, I had never imagined a short sentence to be a blade dipped in poison. And at that moment, I could clearly feel how it sliced and tortured me again and again as my eyes fixed on the page. The child I had raised for six years, loved with every fiber of my being... had no blood relation to me at all. And then I could see the woman's face overlapped with Rob's features. The resemblance was terrifying, so strong it made my stomach churn. But I remembered clearly—six years ago, I had specifically arranged a DNA test after Rob's birth because the maternity hospital had gone through some chaotic situations, and he was protected by tight security. The results had been clear. The baby was ours. So why… Six years later, my son had become someone else's child? And the baby I carried for ten months, the one I gave birth to... Where was he then?
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