When Vera and I found out we were expecting, it felt like every wish we had whispered to the universe was finally being answered. After years of waiting, doctor visits, and quiet prayers, we were going to be parents. But in the weeks leading up to her due date, she dropped a confession that caught me completely off guard.

“Nico,” she said softly one evening, avoiding my eyes, “I don’t want you in the delivery room.”
At first, I thought I’d misheard. This was supposed to be our moment, the one where I held her hand through every contraction, whispered encouragement, and watched the first breath of our child. My heart clenched at her words, but I swallowed my protest. I trusted Vera. If she needed privacy, or had fears she couldn’t voice, I would respect it. Love, I told myself, was about sacrifice—even when it stung.

The day finally arrived. I kissed Vera at the ward entrance, my lips lingering on her damp forehead, before she was wheeled away. Hours stretched into what felt like lifetimes. I paced, I prayed, I tried to calm the storm inside me. When the doctor finally called me in, relief surged through me. Vera was alive. Our baby was here.

But the moment I saw her, my world shifted.
Nestled in Vera’s arms was a baby with pale porcelain skin, golden hair that shimmered under the hospital lights, and startling blue eyes that seemed to pierce straight through me. She looked nothing like me—or Vera.