Megan sat up fully on the exam table, clutching her gown. The doctor’s behavior was more frightening than any medical jargon.
A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the hum of the equipment. Dr. Peterson was quiet for a long moment, glancing from the screen to Megan. Finally, she took a deep breath and pointed to the monitor.
“Do you see this line in the area of the heart? It has an unusual S-shape.”
Megan squinted at the image, but all she saw were chaotic patches of gray. The doctor traced the outline with her finger, explaining the anatomical details.
“It’s a very rare developmental trait of the cardiac septum.”
“Is it dangerous?” Megan instinctively pressed her hands to her stomach. Her thoughts raced between fear for her baby and confusion over the doctor’s strange behavior.
“No, it’s not a defect,” Dr. Peterson reassured her. “It’s more of a genetic marker, passed down through families. It occurs in about one in a hundred thousand people. Your baby will be perfectly healthy.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Megan couldn’t understand why a rare but harmless trait would provoke such a reaction.
Dr. Peterson removed her glasses again, taking her time cleaning them.
“The problem is, a month ago, I saw this exact same anomaly. In another patient.” The doctor spoke slowly, weighing each word. “Her husband’s name is also Michael Bell.”
Megan felt the room spin.
“That has to be a mistake. It’s a common name. A coincidence.”
But why did the doctor look like she’d just seen a ghost?
Dr. Peterson stood up and walked over to a locked filing cabinet. She unlocked it and pulled out a thick folder of patient charts. Her movements were decisive, but they betrayed an inner struggle.
“I’m breaking patient confidentiality,” she said, returning with the folder. “But what I’m about to show you concerns you, too. Perhaps even more than it concerns her.”
She pulled out a prenatal chart. The name on the tab read: “Susan Bell, 26.” Dr. Peterson opened the file and showed Megan a copy of a driver’s license stapled to a page. Megan recognized the face instantly. It was Mike, her husband, the father of her child. The same eyes, the same mole on his cheek, the same small scar above his eyebrow from a childhood fall. But under “marital status,” it said: “Married since 2018.”
“That’s impossible,” Megan whispered, unable to look away from the photo. “We got married in 2020. I remember every detail of our wedding. This is some kind of mistake.”
Dr. Peterson silently produced another document—a utility bill. Susan Bell lived in the Northwood subdivision, just a thirty-minute drive from Megan’s house. The address was unfamiliar, but terrifyingly close.
“Look at the conception dates.” The doctor laid the two charts side by side. “Yours is May 18th, hers is May 4th. A difference of only two weeks. And both babies have the same genetic marker.”
Megan stared at the documents, the numbers, the dates. It all lined up with mathematical precision. Mike had been home at the beginning of May, left for a “business trip,” and returned in the middle of the month. Those trips suddenly took on a sinister new meaning.
“She’s 22 weeks along,” Dr. Peterson continued. “She also believes she is the one and only Mrs. Michael Bell. She lives on the other side of town and has no idea you exist.”
“How can you be so sure?” Megan was still grasping for any other explanation. “Maybe it’s just someone with the same name. Maybe the documents are fake.”
Any explanation seemed more plausible than the truth.
“Because I asked her the same questions a month ago. About her husband, her family, her future. Her story is identical to yours,” the doctor said, closing the charts and looking at Megan with sympathy.
Dr. Peterson took out her cell phone, found a contact, and showed the screen to Megan.
“This is her number. Susan asked me to call if there were any issues with the pregnancy.”
“You want me to call her?”
Megan stared at the phone number as if it were a death sentence. Those ten digits could destroy two women’s lives at once. But the truth was already seeping through her denial.
“That’s your decision,” the doctor replied. “But she has a right to know, just as you did. The genetic marker in your children is undeniable proof of their connection.”
With a trembling hand, Megan copied the number into her phone. The digits blurred before her eyes, but she forced herself to focus. Each number brought her closer to a conversation that would change everything.
Dr. Peterson printed the ultrasound results and handed them to Megan. The image showed the baby’s profile, with the S-shaped feature in its heart clearly visible. What had seemed like a gift of nature now felt like a brand of deceit.
Leaving the office felt like walking through a dream. The clinic hallway seemed endless, her footsteps muffled and distant. In the lobby, she stopped in front of a large mirror and saw her reflection: a pale face, wide eyes, hands instinctively cradling her belly. She looked like a disaster survivor. A child with the genetic signature of a liar was growing inside her, and now she had to decide what to do with that knowledge.
Megan pulled out her phone and typed a text to the stranger: “Hello. My name is Megan. I need to meet with you urgently. It’s about Michael Bell.”
Her finger hovered over the send button. There was no going back.
The coffee shop on Main Street was nearly empty at two in the afternoon. Megan chose a table in a quiet corner with a clear view of the entrance. Her hands shook as she ordered a cup of tea. For the first time in her life, she was about to meet a rival. But what kind of rivalry was it when they had both been deceived equally?
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