Chapter 2

This time, I was ready. Or so I thought.

I didn' t touch a drop of alcohol. I smiled, I made small talk, but my eyes never left my son. I held him close, the familiar weight of him a comfort against the terror coiling in my gut.

Chloe was by my side, the picture of a loving wife.

"You seem tense, honey. Relax. It' s a party."

I forced a smile. "Just a long week. I' m fine."

That night, I put my son to bed myself. I checked his birthmark, a tiny, perfect brown spot on his shoulder. I watched him sleep until my own eyes grew heavy.

I woke up on the couch again. A sense of dread washed over me before I was even fully conscious.

I walked to the crib.

The same baby girl was there.

The cold shock was just as paralyzing as the first time. My son was gone. She was in his place.

I heard footsteps. Chloe, David, and Maria entered the room, their faces already set in masks of concern.

"Ethan, are you okay?" Chloe asked, her voice soft and worried.

"She' s not our baby," I said, my voice flat and dead. "Where is my son?"

The accusations started again, almost word for word.

"Honey, you' re not making sense."

"Drunk again, Ethan?"

"How could you say that about your own daughter? You' re breaking my heart."

This time, I didn' t panic. I didn' t argue. I turned, walked into the adjoining master bathroom, and locked the door.

I leaned against the cool wood, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I pulled out my phone.

My photo gallery. I scrolled frantically.

Every picture of my son-at the hospital, at home, in my arms-was gone. In their place were photos of the baby girl. Me holding her. Chloe holding her. Our family, smiling with a daughter I had never seen before today.

My social media. My post announcing his birth, filled with comments of congratulations for my "beautiful baby boy," was now a post about my "darling daughter." The comments were all different.

My text messages. Conversations with friends and family about my son, all seamlessly altered to be about a daughter.

My entire digital life had been rewritten.

The sheer scale of the conspiracy was suffocating. They hadn' t just swapped a baby. They had erased my son from existence and replaced him with a fiction so complete it was reality for everyone but me.

I slid down the door and sat on the cold tile floor, the phone clattering from my numb fingers. I was trapped. Utterly, completely trapped.

Exhaustion, deeper than any I had ever known, washed over me. I curled up on the small sofa in the corner of the large bedroom and, against all reason, I fell asleep.