But the moment I laid eyes on the child in her arms, something deep in my chest tightened. I couldn't shake the feeling. Something was wrong.
In my last life, my son had been switched.
The baby in Aunt Clara's arms shared similar features but was not identical to my son in the past. This baby clearly had warm honey-brown eyes.
But the boy who stabbed me eighteen years later? The one who called me selfish, who twisted the knife my mother-in-law handed him, who helped destroy my life, had swollen, dark brown eyes.
I reached out, wanting and needing to hold him. But just as my fingertips brushed the edge of the swaddle, Eleanor bulldozed straight into Aunt Clara, slamming her shoulder and snatching the baby right out of her arms.
"Newborns' bones aren't fully developed! Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" the surgeon snapped, glaring at her with pure rage.
But that woman didn't even flinch. Her expression twisted into something smug and defensive.
"I've raised two kids of my own. Don't act like you know more than me about holding a baby," Eleanor shot back, like she was teaching the doctor a lesson.
Then she turned downright nasty.