“I’ve seen that before.”
The room suddenly seemed colder.
Emily stopped crying for a second.
“What do you mean?”
Jason swallowed.
“I’ve seen that mark.”
“Where?”
He looked at me.
And something in his expression frightened me more than the mark itself.
“I don’t know how to explain it.”
“Then try.”
His eyes dropped toward the baby.
“I saw it twenty-eight years ago.”
My heart stopped.
Twenty-eight years.
That was our age.
I stared at him, waiting for him to laugh, to tell us he was confused, that exhaustion and fear had made him say something ridiculous.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he whispered:
“On our mother.”
The words seemed to suck all the air from the room.
I felt my fingers tighten around the blanket.
“Our mother?”
Jason nodded slowly.
“Before she died.”
Emily looked from him to me.
“What are you talking about?”
Jason rubbed both hands over his face.
“I was eight.”
“So was I,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“Then why don’t I remember this?”
Jason looked at me.
“Because Dad made sure we didn’t.”
I felt a chill run through me.
Our father had been dead for almost twelve years.
There were so many things about our childhood I remembered clearly—the little house where we grew up, the tree house Jason built behind the garage, our mother’s laugh, the smell of her perfume.
But suddenly, another memory surfaced.
A memory I hadn’t thought about in decades.
Our mother standing in front of the bathroom mirror.
Her back was turned toward me.
She was crying.
I had been eight years old.
I remembered asking her what was wrong.
She had quickly pulled her robe closed.
And she had said something strange.
“Never tell your father you saw this.”
I blinked.
My heart began pounding.
“Jason…”
He looked at me.
“I remember.”
“What?”
“The bathroom.”
His eyes widened.
“You remember Mom?”
“Her back.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Emily stared at us, completely lost.
“What did your mother have?”
Jason shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
I looked down at the newborn.
The mark was still there.
Three thin lines.
A circle.
And something else.
I leaned closer.
The lines weren’t random.
They formed a pattern.
Almost like a symbol.
A symbol I had seen somewhere before.
Then suddenly, the baby’s tiny hand moved.
Her fingers brushed against the blanket.
And beneath the mark, I noticed something else.
A faint line.
Almost like a scar.
My stomach twisted.
“That’s impossible.”
Jason stepped toward me.
“What?”
I carefully moved the blanket.
There was another mark beneath the first.
This one was lighter.
Older-looking.
Like something had been burned into the skin before the baby was even born.
Emily covered her mouth.
“Babies aren’t born with scars.”
“I know,” I whispered.
The nurse finally stepped between us.
“Everyone needs to calm down.”
She examined the baby carefully.
“Is this a birthmark?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
The nurse frowned.
“It could be a vascular marking, but I’ve never seen one shaped quite like this.”
Jason suddenly grabbed her arm.
“Can you test it?”
The nurse pulled away.
“Sir, please don’t touch me.”
“I need to know what it is.”
“We’ll have a pediatrician examine the baby.”
“No.”
Jason’s voice was so sharp that everyone froze.
“No doctors.”
Emily stared at him.
“Jason, what are you saying?”
He looked at her.
Then at me.
Then at the baby.
And for the first time since I had known my brother, I saw genuine terror in his eyes.
“Not until I find out who put that mark on her.”
The nurse stepped backward.
“Put it on her?”
Jason didn’t answer.
Instead, he turned toward the door.
I watched him reach into his pocket.
He pulled out his phone.
His hands were shaking.
He dialed a number.
Nobody answered.
He called again.
Still nothing.
Then he looked at me.
“She’s not ours.”
Emily began crying again.
“Stop saying that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She’s our daughter!”
“No.”
Jason shook his head.
“She’s genetically ours. That’s what I mean.”
The words made no sense.
“What are you talking about?”
He looked directly at me.
“The embryo wasn’t ours.”
Silence.
I stared at him.
“What?”
Emily’s face went blank.
Jason took a slow breath.
“Three years ago, when our first IVF cycle failed, we went to a private fertility clinic. They promised they could help us.”
Emily shook her head.
“Jason…”
“Just listen.”
She stared at him.
“We had five embryos.”
“I know.”
“Four didn’t survive.”
“I know.”
“The fifth one was transferred.”
Emily nodded.
“That’s our baby.”
Jason’s voice broke.
“That’s what we were told.”
My stomach dropped.
“What were you told?”
He looked at the baby.
Then back at me.
“That the embryo was ours.”
Emily suddenly whispered, “Jason…”
“I found something two weeks ago.”
“What?”
He reached into his pocket again.
This time he pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He handed it to me.
I opened it.
It was a medical report.
At first, the words meant nothing.
Then I saw one sentence highlighted in yellow.
Embryonic genetic profile does not correspond to recorded parental samples.
My hands began to tremble.
“Where did you get this?”
Jason swallowed.
“From the clinic.”
“Why didn’t you tell Emily?”
“I tried.”
Emily stared at him.
“You never told me.”
“I was scared.”
“You were scared?”
“I thought there had been a paperwork mistake.”
Emily’s eyes filled with tears.
“And you waited until today?”
Jason looked at her.
“I needed proof.”
“Proof of what?”
He didn’t answer.