Nurses rushed forward, trying to calm him, explaining that births like this required verification, that nothing had been officially recorded yet, that science offered explanations. They spoke of tests. Of time. Of reason.
Javier didn’t listen.
He pointed at me as if I were something rotten.
“I will not carry this shame,” he said coldly.
And then he turned around and walked out.
He didn’t ask for explanations.
He didn’t ask for proof.
He didn’t look back.
The door closed behind him with a soft click that echoed louder than his scream.
I was left there—alone—with five newborns and a silence so heavy it felt suffocating. The nurses avoided my eyes. Whispers floated through the corridor. No one knew what to say to me.
I didn’t know what to say either.
I just pulled my babies closer and cried quietly, afraid that if I made a sound, I would completely fall apart.
The days that followed were worse.
Rumors spread like poison.
Awkward glances followed me through the ward.
Some believed I had been unfaithful.
Others whispered about a hospital error.
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