I was certain I had buried one of my twin sons the day they were born. For five years, I carried that grief silently—until a Sunday at the playground shattered my world.
My son Stefan stopped abruptly, whispering, “He was in your belly with me.” Across the playground sat a boy with the same brown curls, narrow nose, and crescent-shaped birthmark. My heart froze. Stefan ran to him, their hands clasped as if they’d always belonged together.
Then I recognized the woman watching: the nurse from my delivery. She confessed the truth: Eli, my other twin, had survived. She’d reported him stillborn, believing it was “mercy,” to protect me and her sister.
Five years of mourning vanished in a heartbeat. DNA confirmed Eli was mine. The boys now share laughter, toys, and love I feared was lost forever.
I cannot reclaim the stolen years—but I can ensure there are no more secrets. Now, when I see my sons together, I see what was found, not what was taken.
