Chapter 1

My phone buzzed with a new photo from Andrew.

It was a picture of him, Molly Chavez, and a newborn baby boy, all beaming in a hospital room. Molly, his high school sweetheart, looked tired but radiant. Andrew was crying with joy, his arm wrapped tightly around her.

He captioned it: "Welcome to the world, son. We finally have our family."

I stared at the screen, my own body aching with a familiar emptiness. Eight years of marriage, six miscarriages. Each one a tiny ghost haunting our sprawling, silent house. The doctors couldn't find a reason, just a string of bad luck that felt like a personal curse.

It was my idea to ask Molly to be our surrogate. I couldn't bear another loss, another failure. I thought giving Andrew the son he desperately wanted would fix us, would fill the void that had grown between us. I paid her a small fortune, enough to change her difficult life back in his Appalachian hometown.

I typed back a single, painful message.

"He's beautiful, Andrew. I'm so happy for us."

A lie. I wasn't happy. I was a spectator to my own life, watching my husband build a family with another woman, using my money, because my own body had failed.

The response came instantly.

"He is, Gabi. He's perfect. Molly was amazing. Thank you for making this happen. You' re the best wife a man could ask for."

The best wife. The one who outsources motherhood.

I closed my eyes, blaming myself. Blaming my genetics, my stress, my body. Anything but him. Andrew had been my rock through every miscarriage, holding me, telling me it wasn't my fault. But his family, his "childfree" siblings, always looked at me with a pity that felt like judgment.

Then, a week later, the call came that shattered everything.

It was Andrew's brother, Clark. His voice was frantic, cracking with panic.

"Gabi, it's Madisyn. There's been an accident. A bad one. We're at County General."

Madisyn. My eight-year-old niece. The first child adopted by one of Andrew's siblings, just after my first miscarriage. I felt a cold dread wash over me.

"What happened? Is she okay?"

"She needs blood. A lot of it. It's a rare type, B-negative. The hospital is low on it."

My heart stopped.

"Clark, that's my blood type. I'm on my way."

I didn't wait for a reply. I grabbed my keys and raced to the hospital, my mind a blur of prayers and fear. When I arrived at the pediatric ICU, the entire Lester clan was huddled together, their faces pale and strained. Andrew was there, his arm around Clark's wife, comforting her. He saw me and his face tightened.

"Gabi, what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to donate. I'm B-negative, Andrew. I can help."

A strange, collective panic rippled through the family. Clark shot up from his chair.

"No. Absolutely not."

His voice was sharp, hostile. It made no sense.

"What do you mean, no? She's my niece, she needs blood, and I'm a match. Why would you stop me?"

"We just... we can't let you," Clark's wife stammered, wringing her hands. "It's not right."

A doctor, a kind-faced older woman, overheard the bizarre exchange. She approached me, her expression a mix of confusion and professional concern.

"Ma'am, you're B-negative?"

"Yes. I want to donate for my niece, Madisyn Lester."

The doctor looked from my face to Madisyn's chart, then back to me. She frowned, a flicker of recognition in her eyes. She glanced at the panicking family, then leaned in closer to me, lowering her voice.

"Mrs. Lester, I have to advise against it. We strongly discourage direct blood donations from immediate family members, especially a parent to a child. It can sometimes cause complications."

Her words hung in the air, thick and heavy.

A parent to a child.

She wasn't looking at Clark or his wife. She was looking at me.

"What... what are you talking about?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

The doctor' s eyes were full of a terrible pity. "The resemblance is... uncanny. I assumed you knew. Madisyn is your daughter, isn't she?"

The world tilted. The sterile hospital hallway dissolved into a dizzying vortex. My first miscarriage. The one eight years ago. The one they told me I lost at the hospital after a sudden hemorrhage.

Madisyn. My daughter.

My eyes found Andrew across the hall. He wouldn't look at me. He just stood there, a statue of guilt, his face ashen.

And in that moment, I knew. It wasn't a miscarriage. It was a theft.