“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.