Our secret story is now 15 years old. I can share it because my husband knows, so it’s all right.
Before giving birth, I stayed on bed rest for 26 days, which felt like an extraordinary holiday before the inevitable sleepless nights. I shared the room with a young woman named Sarah, who was 21, quite pretty, living with her parents. The pregnancy wasn’t planned, her father wasn’t thrilled, and there was no talk of marriage—a typical situation, and she didn’t view it as catastrophic. We never really discussed it; she just mentioned that her mother wished for a granddaughter, and her father didn’t mind who he would teach to ride a bike. We chatted a lot, became friends, and enjoyed treats together.
One morning during a check-up, the doctor asked her, “Have you changed your mind?”
“No,” she answered firmly.
“The nurse will bring you the form. By law, you have six months to reconsider.”
I was curious but hesitated to ask. Before lunch, the nurse brought the documents, and Sarah filled them out. My head was pounding with thoughts, and I couldn’t stay silent any longer.
“What is that?” I asked.
“An adoption waiver.”
“Why!? You could raise the baby; your parents would help. You’re young and strong. What are you thinking?”
“I can have more later! Right now isn’t the time, not for me!”
Her response was cold, devoid of sadness or pity, without tears. She didn’t even avert her gaze, while I kept looking, waiting for her to cry—that’s when I thought I could change her mind. But she didn’t cry. We stopped going for walks and hardly spoke.
I started fantasizing about adopting her baby. After a night of restless thoughts, unsure of what would happen to her form, I went to my doctor in the morning. I told the story as it was, and we went to see the head of the maternity ward. There, I explained again. We then went to the chief doctor, where I laid it out:
“Is it possible to do it in a way that makes it look like I gave birth to that child, and she didn’t? I don’t know how, but to make the child completely mine, so I don’t have to explain anything to my husband or family. Just like I had twins, that’s all!” Considering my severe polyhydramnios, the idea seemed brilliant to me.
The doctors stared in disbelief. The chief doctor rolled his eyes.
“My dear! That would break the law! You want me in court over this?”
“Why does it matter to you? Please think of something! Even if we delivered on different days, record it as my birth! Or are you going to sell the baby to someone?” Those words shouldn’t have been said, and the doctors, offended, showed me the door.
That night, Sarah gave birth. I felt sad but hoped the Lord had a good fate planned for the baby. I tried not to dwell on it, to avoid tears, and soothed myself by rubbing my large belly. The next evening, I went into labor. It was a difficult birth. At 6:55, I became the mother of sweet little Beth.
Right after delivery, while I was still recovering, the chief doctor approached me.
“Have you changed your mind?”
I didn’t understand at first, but when I did, I shook my head vigorously.
“No! No! No! I haven’t changed my mind!”
And that’s how I ended up with twins—James and Beth. James nursed like a champion, while Beth was quite lazy, but she gained weight nevertheless.
I asked the chief doctor how I could help the ward. He scribbled down a list and said, “As much as you can manage, we always need more.”
I hadn’t told my husband about the twins over the phone. I just asked him to come visit. When he saw them, it wasn’t just shock—he sat down, asked for water, drank it, and then asked:
“But what about the scan…? Ahem, so… have you named them?”
“What do you think?” I replied.
“Well, we were set on Beth, but now…” He stood up suddenly, smiling as if he remembered something. “How about naming him after my grandfather—James?”
Of course, I agreed. I was in tears, and he thought it was from happiness. Well, partly happiness, but also fear of this lie I was living, for everyone I’d have to deceive in the upcoming days.
I have no idea how they managed to sort everything legally, but from the start, all paperwork—from wristbands to birth certificates—was handled correctly.
On April 21st, my children turned 15. We decided to celebrate with a fishing trip. James received a fishing rod with a reel, and Beth got a mountain bike. I resolved to tell my husband about everything during this trip, though I knew I’d need some courage—preferably through a few drinks. On the way back, I grabbed two bottles of fairly strong wine at the store. My husband was surprised, but I just said, “Well, it’s a celebration.” The kids went to bed late, and I set up a little continuation of the party in the kitchen. With only a bit left in the second bottle, I finally told him. Upon hearing it, Tom listened, then said:
“I don’t believe you.”
“Cross my heart!” I swore, my cross as unsteady as I was after the wine.
The next evening he asked again, “Is it true?”
“Yes,” I replied, not nearly as brave with my head hung low.
We had a long conversation, with me crying. It felt like a weight lifted off my shoulders, and Tom understood.
“Wow, you really pulled that off!” he exclaimed. “James, Beth, come here!” The kids approached, and I froze. “Your mother is a strong and wise woman! You better be careful with her,” he said, smiling kindly.
