The door closed behind her.

I stood there holding the card, feeling as if the entire structure of my life had suddenly tilted.

In the parking lot I sat in my car for fifteen minutes, staring at the address written on the card.

Twice I picked up my phone to call Pete. Twice I put it down again. The last time I had heard his voice, he was telling me our daughters were dead—and somehow blaming me for it.

I wasn’t ready to hear that voice again.

Instead, I typed the address into my GPS and started driving.

The house was in a quiet suburban neighborhood.

When I knocked, the door opened—and the last person I expected stood there.

Pete.

All the color drained from his face.

“CAMILA??”

We hadn’t seen each other since the divorce.

Behind him, the woman from the daycare appeared, holding a baby boy in her arms. She looked at Pete, then at me, and said calmly,

“I’m glad you showed up… finally!”

“Alice, what’s going on?” Pete stammered. “How did she…?”

Ignoring him, I stepped inside.

A wall covered in framed photos greeted me—wedding pictures, Pete standing at an altar with that woman, the girls dressed alike on what looked like a honeymoon trip.

“Alice… why is Camila here?” Pete asked, voice shaking. “How did she even find this place?”

Alice kept her eyes on me. “Maybe it was meant to happen. Maybe fate wanted her to find them.”

Pete frowned. “Find them? What are you talking about?”

“She’s their mother. Maybe it’s time they went back to her.”

I felt the world tilt.

“What did you say?”

Alice met my gaze. “Those girls… they’re yours. The daughters you were told died.”

“Alice, stop,” Pete snapped quickly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But the fear in his voice gave him away.

I looked from one of them to the other. Something was terribly wrong.

Then I slowly pulled out my phone and held it up so Pete could see.

“Pete, you have about thirty seconds to start telling me the truth. If you don’t, the next call I make is to the police. Are those girls my daughters?”

Pete forced a nervous laugh.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Camila. Those aren’t your daughters.”

He denied everything.

I looked at him for a long moment, then glanced down at the phone in my hand and tapped the screen.

“Wait!” Pete shouted, rushing toward me. “Camila, stop!”

My thumb hovered over the green call icon.

“Please,” he pleaded. “Don’t do this. I’ll explain everything.”

Slowly, I lowered the phone but kept it tightly in my grasp.

“Then start talking. Right now.”

At last, he sank onto the couch and buried his face in his hands.

continue to the next page.”