“The DNA results are back,” she said. “And they are not what anyone anticipated. The baby is not biologically related to Ryan.”
For a split second, relief tried to surface. If that were true, Ryan would look foolish, and this nightmare could finally end. But Dr. Patel’s expression remained grave.
The room seemed to tilt. I gripped the edge of the chair to keep from falling. “That can’t be right,” I whispered. “I gave birth to him.”
“I know what you went through,” she said gently. “I’m not disputing your experience. But genetically, there is no maternal match. When we see results like this, we consider two urgent explanations: a laboratory error—or a baby mix-up.”
My mouth went dry. “A mix-up… as in switched babies?”
“It’s rare,” Dr. Patel said, “but it does happen—most often during extremely busy shifts when protocols aren’t followed perfectly. We immediately contacted the lab to verify the chain of custody. They’ve confirmed that all samples—yours, the baby’s, and Ryan’s—were correctly labeled and processed.”
I pressed my hand to my chest, struggling to slow my breathing. “So… what does this mean?”
“It means law enforcement needs to be involved right away,” she replied. “Hospital security and administration are already being alerted. If this was an accidental exchange, we must find the other infant immediately and ensure both babies are safe. If someone interfered intentionally, then this becomes a criminal investigation.”
Without realizing it, my arms tightened around the baby carrier. My son—my son—made a soft sound in his sleep. Tears blurred my vision.
“Are you saying someone took my baby?”
“I’m saying we don’t know yet,” Dr. Patel said. “And we can’t afford to wait to find out.”
My fingers trembled as I dialed. While the phone rang, a horrible truth settled in: Ryan’s demand for a DNA test wasn’t the only betrayal in my life—but it had cracked open a door to something far larger and far more terrifying.
When the dispatcher answered, my voice sounded distant, unfamiliar.
“Hi,” I said, swallowing hard. “I’m at Saint Mary’s Hospital. My doctor told me to call. They believe… they believe my baby may have been switched.”
Behind the desk, Dr. Patel was already typing rapidly, her movements precise and controlled.
Then I saw them—two uniformed officers stepping off the elevator at the end of the hallway—walking toward me like I’d been pulled into a nightmare I never agreed to witness.
