There was an almost electric sense of anticipation in the delivery room. My wife, Emma, lay on the hospital bed, gripping my hand tightly, her face a mix of excitement and exhaustion. The atmosphere felt dreamlike, filled with the soft voices of nurses, the rhythmic beeping of monitors, and the doctor’s gentle encouragement.
This was it—the moment we had been waiting for. We had spent nine months picking out baby clothes, feeling little kicks at night, and dreaming about whether our child would inherit Emma’s golden hair or my angular cheekbones. But all those thoughts were shattered by a piercing wail. Our baby had arrived.
I turned to see the doctor gently lifting our newborn, her tiny limbs wriggling as she took her first breaths. Tears welled in my eyes; she was perfect. But then Emma’s unexpected scream shattered the moment.
“This isn’t my child!” The room fell silent. The nurses froze, and the doctor paused mid-step. I thought Emma might be overwhelmed or in shock from the
