My mother never threw anything away.
Old birthday cards.
Broken picture frames.
Even clothes that no longer fit.
One rainy afternoon, she asked me to help clean the hallway closet.
Near the back, behind folded blankets, I found a dusty shoe box wrapped with an old ribbon.
"I'll take this too," I called.
Before she could answer, I opened it.
Inside were tiny baby clothes, a knitted blanket, a newborn cap, and a faded hospital bracelet.
The bracelet immediately caught my attention.
The date was exactly twenty-five years ago.
The last name was ours.
But the first name wasn't mine.
I stared at it, confused.
"Mom... who's this?"
She looked at the bracelet from across the room.
Her face turned pale.
For several seconds, she couldn't speak.
She slowly walked over and gently took it from my hands.
"I prayed you would never find this."
I felt my heart pounding.
"If it isn't mine... whose is it?"
She sat down on the edge of the bed.
Tears filled her eyes.
"The day you were born..."
"...I wasn't the only mother in that hospital."
I frowned.
She continued.
"There was another woman in the room next to mine."
Her hands trembled as she held the bracelet.
"We became friends while waiting for our babies."
She looked at me.
"That night..."
"...everything changed."
I leaned closer.
She whispered,
"When the fire alarm went off, the nurses rushed everyone out."
The room fell silent.
"I've spent twenty-five years wondering if..."
She stopped herself.
I waited.
Then she looked into my eyes and whispered,
"...whether they handed me the wrong baby."
END.
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