We’ve kept this secret for 15 years now, and since my husband knows, I can finally share it.
Before the birth, I spent 26 days in the hospital as a precaution, which felt like a grand holiday before the sleepless nights commenced. I shared a room with Emily—a 21-year-old woman from a modest background, living with her parents. Her pregnancy wasn’t planned, and her boyfriend wasn’t thrilled nor intended to propose—an all-too-common scenario she seemed unbothered by. We didn’t dwell on it much; she just mentioned once that her mum wanted a granddaughter, while her dad didn’t mind who to teach to ride a bike. We bonded over chats and snacks.
One morning, during a check-up, the doctor asked her:
– Have you changed your mind?
– No, she replied firmly.
– The nurse will bring the form. By law, you have six months to reconsider.
I pondered on it but was too hesitant to ask. Before lunch, the nurse brought in the paperwork, which Emily filled out. My mind was racing, and I could no longer stay silent:
– What’s that?
– It’s a relinquishment form.
– Why!? You can raise the child; your parents will help you. You’re young and strong. Why?
– I’ll have more kids later! It’s just not the right time for me now!
Her response was as cold as ice, devoid of sorrow or pity for the child, not a tear shed. I watched, expecting her to break down so I could change her mind, but she didn’t cry. After that, we hardly spoke or strolled around together. I began fantasizing about taking the baby home myself. After a restless night of pondering over where her decision would lead, I resolved to speak with my doctor the next morning. I explained everything, and we spoke to the head of the maternity ward, where I again shared my thoughts. Next, we approached the chief doctor, and it was there that I laid it all out:
– Could it be arranged that I’m listed as having given birth to the baby while she isn’t recognized as having done so? I don’t know how, but it has to be entirely mine so that I don’t need to explain it to my husband or family—just that I had twins! I had been experiencing polyhydramnios, so this seemed like a wonderful solution.
The doctors were shocked, and the chief doctor rolled his eyes.
– My dear! That would be illegal! Do you want me to go to court for you?
– Why should you care?! Think of something! Please! Even if we deliver on different days, just list it alongside my birth record! Or are you going to sell the baby to someone else? That part was an overstep, and I was promptly shown out by the offended medical staff.
That night Emily gave birth. I was sad, but deep inside hoped that God had a good plan for the child. I tried not to dwell on it too much to avoid tears, soothing myself by gently rubbing my large belly.
The next evening, labor pains commenced. It was a challenging delivery, but by 6:55, I became a mom to lovely Lucy.
Shortly after, while I was still recovering, the chief doctor approached me:
– Have you reconsidered?
It took a moment to understand, and then I shook my head vigorously:
– No! No! I haven’t changed my mind!
So, I gave birth to twins—Charlie and Lucy. Charlie nursed as if there was no tomorrow, while Lucy was frightfully lazy yet managed to gain weight.
I asked the chief doctor how I could help the ward. He scribbled a list and said:
– The more, the better; we’re always in need.
I didn’t tell my husband about the twins over the phone. I just asked him to come by. When he saw us, he wasn’t exactly shocked, but he sat down and asked for some water. After drinking, he said:
– So about the ultrasounds… Uh, did you name them?
– How about you decide?
– We were considering Lucy, but for the boy…, he suddenly smiled, recalling something, let’s name him after my grandfather—Charlie?
Of course, let’s do Charlie. I was in tears, and he thought it was from happiness. It was indeed partly from joy, and partly from the realization of my fibbing, knowing I’d continue to deceive everyone for a couple more days.
I don’t know how they sorted everything, but from the start, all documents from wristbands to the hospital discharge papers were in order.
On April 21st, our kids turned 15. We decided to celebrate with a fishing trip. We got Charlie a fishing rod with a reel and Lucy a mountain bike. While there, I resolved to tell my husband, but knew I’d need some courage—not sober, fearing his reaction, but a bit tipsy I’d find it less daunting. On the way home, I picked up two bottles of strong wine. When my husband expressed surprise, I quipped, “Well, it’s a celebration after all.” Once the kids went to sleep, I set up a continuation of the party in the kitchen. When the wine was nearly finished, I confessed. John listened, then said:
– I don’t believe it.
– Cross my heart! It was a rather sloppy drunk promise.
The following evening, he asked again:
– Is it true?
– Yes, I admitted, now less bold, my head bowed.
We talked for a long time, and I cried. It felt like a weight was lifted, and he understood.
– Well, you’ve certainly pulled a fast one! Charlie, Lucy, come here! The kids came over, and I held my breath. – Your mum is a strong and wise woman! Handle her carefully, John smiled warmly.
