It should have been a happy day. Cruella had won first place in a citywide writing competition with an essay about gratitude toward her mother. As her parent, I was invited to represent the families and go onstage to share my “parenting experience.”

When I stepped up to the podium, I was still smiling.

But that smile froze the moment I read the first line aloud.

“My mom loves dyeing her hair in all kinds of colors. Not long ago, she dyed it brunette again.”

Instinctively, I reached up and touched my hair.

Black. I had never dyed it. I tried to calm myself. Maybe children exaggerate.

But then came the second sentence.

“My mom loves wearing high heels. She looks especially beautiful when she walks.”

I don’t own a single pair of high heels. I gave them up completely after getting pregnant.

A sense of unease crept in, but I forced myself to continue.

“My mom isn’t very tall. She has a heart-shaped face and doe eyes.”

My throat tightened. I couldn’t go on.

I’m 5’7”, broad-shouldered, with a round face.

Nothing in her description matched me.

A parent suddenly spoke up from the audience.

“Teacher, may I ask, how authentic is this essay? If it doesn’t match reality, is it really appropriate for it to win first place?”

In that instant, it felt as though someone had slapped me across the face in public.

I barely held myself together, made an excuse about feeling unwell, and left early.

The moment I sat in my car, I realized my hands were shaking.

A strange, nameless panic rose in my chest.

Before I could sort through my thoughts, a notification popped up on my phone. It was our family’s medical checkup report from the hospital.

When my eyes landed on the final line, my entire body went rigid.

[Child’s blood type: A]

I checked it again. And again. Three times in total.

My husband, Viggo, and I—one of us is AB, the other B.

No matter how you calculate it, we could never have an A-type child!

My first reaction was that the system must be wrong, so I immediately called the doctor.

After listening, he asked carefully, “Has your daughter’s father always handled her medical checkups?”

“Yeah,” I replied.

There was a brief pause. When the doctor spoke again, his tone was cautious and deliberate.

“There is only one explanation.”

“Either the child was switched at birth… or you are not her biological mother.”

I heard the last sentence. But I couldn’t understand it.