“You must give the child to us. We are his real parents,” said the strangers at the door.
“Mum, can I skip school tomorrow? My head hurts again!” Alfie stood in the kitchen doorway, gripping the frame.
Olivia turned away from the stove, where she was stirring soup. Her son did look pale, with dark circles under his eyes.
“Again? Alfie, this is the third time this week. Maybe we should see a doctor?”
“I dont need a doctor. Im just tired. Can I stay home?”
“Well see in the morning. Go finish your homework for now.”
“I already did it.”
“All of it? Even the maths?”
“Even the maths.”
Olivia walked over, placing a hand on his forehead. No fever. Still, the boy had been unusually quiet latelynothing like the energetic child who used to bounce off the walls. Now he spent hours staring out the window.
“Alfie, is everything alright at school? No ones bothering you?”
“Its fine, Mum. Just a headache.”
He shuffled off to his room. Olivia returned to the stove, but unease gnawed at her. You raise a child for eight years, think you know them inside outthen suddenly realise somethings wrong, and you cant figure out what.
That evening, her husband Simon came home. Exhausted from his shift, he took one look at her face and frowned.
“Whats wrong?”
“Alfies complaining about headaches again. Third time this week.”
“Then he should see a doctor.”
“Ive told him. He refuses. Maybe hes just worn out? End of term, exams…”
Simon went to check on Alfie. Olivia heard their murmured conversation before he returned, sinking into a chair.
“He says hes fine. But he agreed to see the doctor tomorrow.”
“Good. Ill book an appointment first thing.”
At dinner, Alfie barely touched his food. He pushed peas around his plate, sipped his tea, then asked to go to bed. Olivia and Simon exchanged glances.
“Maybe hes got a crush?” Simon suggested. “Happens at that age.”
“Too young for that. Hes only eight.”
“Kids grow up fast these days.”
Olivia cleared the table, scrubbing plates absentmindedly. Was it school? Or something worse? Something serious?
She checked on Alfie twice that night. He tossed in his sleep, mumbling. She adjusted his blanket, smoothing his hair. His eyes fluttered open.
“Mum?”
“Sleep, love. Its alright.”
“Mum do you love me?”
“Of course I do. More than anything.”
“What if what if Im not yours?”
Olivia froze.
“Dont be silly, Alfie. Of course youre mine. Go back to sleep.”
He turned to the wall. Olivia left, but sleep wouldnt come. Where had that come from?
Next morning, Alfie got ready without prompting. Ate breakfast, packed his bag.
“Mum, Im going to school. Heads better.”
“Are you sure? What about the doctor?”
“Im fine. Really.”
And he was gone before she could argue. She watched from the windowhe walked briskly, as if hurrying somewhere.
The day dragged. Work, groceries, cooking. But the unease lingered. She almost rang his teacher, then stopped herself. No need to overreact.
At three, the doorbell rang. A man and woman stood therestrangers. The man, tall and dark-haired, looked about forty. The woman, younger, had a tense smile.
“Hello,” the man said. “Are you Olivia Carter?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Andrew Graves. This is my wife, Claire. We need to talk.”
“About what?”
Andrew glanced at Claire. She nodded encouragement.
“About your son. Alfie.”
Olivia stiffened.
“What about him? Did something happen at school?”
“No, schools fine. May we come in? Its complicated.”
“I dont know you. What could we possibly discuss?”
Claire stepped forward, eyes glistening.
“Please. Its important. We were his real parents. You have to give him back.”
Olivia staggered back. Her ears rang.
“What? Thats ridiculous! Alfie is *my* son!”
“Listen,” Andrew pulled documents from his briefcase. “There was a mistake at the hospital. Eight years ago. Our babies were switched.”
“Get out! Now! Or Ill call the police!”
“Olivia, please,” Claires voice cracked. “We raised a child too. Loved him. Then we found out…”
“Found out *what*?”
“Our sonthe boy we raisedhe fell ill. We needed a blood transfusion. Thats when we realised his blood type didnt match. Neither of us. We did a DNA test.”
Olivia gripped the doorframe. Her legs shook.
“And?”
“Hes not biologically ours. We investigated. Checked hospital records. Only two boys were born that night. Ours and yours.”
“This is some mistake.”
“We tested DNA from the boy we raised. Then we took a sample from Alfie.”
“How? When?”
Andrew looked away.
“Im sorry. We followed him for a few days. Took a juice carton he threw out. It was enough for the test.”
“You *stalked* my child? Thats illegal!”
“We had to know. The test confirmed it. Alfie is our son.”
Olivias vision blurred. She stumbled to the hallway chair. The strangers hovered in the doorway.
“Show me the proof.”
Andrew handed over the folder. DNA results, hospital records. Olivias hands trembled.
“This cant be real.”
“We didnt want to believe it either,” Claire whispered. “Eight years. Eight years I raised someone elses child.”
“Hes not *someone elses*,” Andrew cut in. “Ethan is our son. Not by blood, but ours. We love him.”
“And we love Alfie,” Olivia glared. “And were *not* giving him up.”
“But hes ours by blood”
“By *blood*? Who raised him? Who stayed up when he teethed? Who nursed him through chickenpox? Who helped with homework, read bedtime stories?”
“We understand,” Andrew crouched beside her. “Truly. Were in the same boat. Ethan is family. But…”
“But *what*?”
“Wed like to see Alfie. And you if you wanted could see Ethan.”
“I dont *want* to see your Ethan! I have a sonAlfie!”
The front door slammed. Simon stood there, taking in the scenehis wife in tears, strangers in his home.
“Whats going on? Liv, are you okay?”
“Simon theyre saying theyre saying Alfie isnt ours.”
“Thats *bollocks*.”
Andrew stood, offering a hand. “Andrew Graves. This is my wife, Claire. There was a mix-up at the hospital. Your son is biologically ours. And ours is yours.”
Simon ignored the hand. He snatched the folder, scanning the papers.
“What do you want?”
“We we dont know. We just wanted to meet him. See him.”
“See him and *what*? Take him?”
“No!” Claire gasped. “Were not monsters. We know the boys have lives. But maybe we could visit sometimes?”
“Do the boys know?”
“Ethan the boy you your biological son we havent told him yet. Dont know how.”
“Good. And we wont tell Alfie.”
“But he already knows,” Claire said softly.
“*What*? How?”
“We dont know. Yesterday, he came up to us near his school. Just approached us. Said, Youre my real parents, arent you? We were stunned. He said he *felt* it. That he always knew he didnt look like you.”
Olivias stomach dropped. Last nights question*What if Im not yours?*now made sense.
“Where did he see you?”
“Weve been near the school. Watching from a distance. He mustve noticed sensed something.”
“Oh God,” Olivia covered her face. “What do we *do*?”
“Lets talk calmly,” Andrew said. “The facts: the boys were switched. Two families love their sons. We need a solution that works for everyone.”
“Solution?” Simons fists clenched. “Swap them like *trading cards*?”
“No! Of course not! Theyve grown up with you. But we have rights”
“You have *no* rights!”
“Legally, we do. As biological parents”
“Sod the law! Alfie is *our* boy!”
The door creaked open. Alfie stood there, eyes darting between the adults.
“M
