It was scorching hot when my neighbor’s son, Dylan, timidly asked if he could swim in our pool. I didn’t think twice; I poured lemonade, welcomed him with a warm smile.
But when he removed his shirt and climbed into the water, everything stopped. My heart dropped. A distinctive birthmark appeared across his back—identical to the one my husband bears. I couldn’t breathe.
“Dylan… that mark… how long have you had it?” I managed to ask, voice trembling.
He shrugged and splashed around, oblivious as I staggered backward, guilt and panic surging through me. Later that day, in the kitchen, I tiptoed through the house, desperate for answers but too scared to confront him outright.
When my husband asked if I was okay, I muttered something about overthinking. I couldn’t—yet—ask the question I desperately needed answered: Whose child was this?
That silent moment by the pool shattered my sense of safety. And now, I had to decide whether to confront the reality I overheard or stay silent and broken.
