The hotel suite glowed softly in the lamplight. The party was over; we were finally alone. My dress lay in a heap, my heart full and certain — this was the start of forever.
Then came the knock.
Firm. Urgent.
He opened the door to a young woman clutching a worn envelope. Her eyes — hauntingly familiar.
“I need to talk to you,” she said. “About your mother.”
A chill ran through me. “What about her?”
“She’s my mother too.”
I almost laughed — until she handed me the envelope. Inside: faded photos, old letters, a name I didn’t know. One photo showed a woman holding a baby who looked exactly like me.
My mother’s handwriting spilled the truth: “They took you from me. They replaced you with another baby — [My Name]. She isn’t my daughter. She is yours.”
I looked up. The woman’s eyes were my own.
She wasn’t my half-sister.
She was my mother.
And I was the stolen child.
My perfect wedding night was not a beginning — it was the end of everything I knew.
