1 Returning with the birth certificate, I paused at the ward door. Through the gap, I saw Desmond gently remove our newborn’s hospital band. Curiosity stirred. As I moved to enter, my blood froze—he was swapping blankets between our daughter and another baby. A sweet voice then spoke: "Desmond, I’ll treat your daughter as my own." He gazed at Seraphina Lowell—his unattainable "white moonlight"—with unbearable tenderness. "She’ll have a complete home. I’ll be her father now." Clutching Anya’s birth certificate, icy despair filled me. What about our daughter? Inside, Desmond cradled Seraphina's baby with such profound care, his eyes overflowing with an affection and devotion that had never once been bestowed upon me or our child. That gentle, focused, loving gaze had never fallen on us, not once in our entire marriage. In that excruciating moment, the warmth and love on his face felt like a sharp, unforgiving blade. I didn't even have time to think; an indescribable, searing pain tore through me, as if my heart had been gouged out, leaving nothing but raw, exposed flesh. I lowered my gaze, staring blankly at the crisp new birth certificate, at our daughter’s name: Anya Grant. My vision blurred, from sharp clarity to a hazy distortion. Even her name, Anya, meaning 'grace' or 'favor,' seemed to secretly mourn their love, a silent monument to what they shared. Only then, belatedly, did the crushing realization hit me: Desmond Grant didn't love me. And equally, he didn't love our daughter. Not even this child, whom I had carried for ten months, enduring a night of excruciating labor to bring into the world. This shattering truth sent tremors through me. I couldn't even stand steady, forced to press myself against the cold, sterile wall for support, gasping for breath. From the ward, Desmond’s husky voice reached my ears again, heavy with emotion: "Seraphina, the regret of our love, unfulfilled and separated, we will atone for it through this child. My first half of life was for you; the latter half will be for her. She is the last thread connecting us, our final, bittersweet bond." The regret of a love unfulfilled, you say? A bitter, self-mocking laugh, choked and dry, escaped me. Why must your regret be compensated by sacrificing my daughter’s entire life? A compensation at the cruel expense of another. My love for him withered, replaced by an unspeakable disappointment, laced with a bitter, simmering hatred that took root deep within my heart. I wiped away the tears streaming down my face, slowly pushing myself off the wall, gathering what little composure I had left. Then, with a chilling resolve, I pushed the door open, abruptly interrupting the intimate tableau unfolding within. Desmond’s face immediately darkened upon seeing me, his tone sharp with displeasure. "What took you so long? Is that how a mother behaves?" he snapped, his voice echoing in the too-quiet room. "Joanna Grant, can't you learn from Seraphina? Her eyes haven't left the baby for a single second!" I lowered my head, masking the disappointment and profound pain swirling in my eyes. In Desmond's eyes, I had always fallen short compared to Seraphina. Even though he knew perfectly well I had just been out getting our daughter's birth certificate. Living in adjacent apartments before, he had constantly compared me to Seraphina, his every word subtly praising her virtues. Blind as I was, I'd never once noticed the veiled intimacy between them. My gaze fell on Seraphina, who was still holding the baby she believed was hers. I forced a grim, almost feral smile, a cold hatred gathering in my eyes. The baby Seraphina was cradling was undeniably my Anya! Sensing my intense stare, Seraphina shifted, subtly shielding the baby from my view. Just then, the baby in Desmond's arms — the one he believed was Seraphina's — suddenly burst into loud, wailing sobs. This time, he didn't immediately blame me. Instead, he held the infant close, murmuring soft words of comfort, his expression contorted with concern. Our daughter had been born three days ago, and he hadn't even reached out to hold her once! Yet now, as he looked down, whispering to this stranger's baby, he radiated the tender glow of fatherhood. So this was the stark difference between love and indifference. I stared at him, transfixed, my mind a battlefield of warring thoughts. Suddenly, a daring, desperate idea took root. Seraphina turned to me, offering a brittle, bitter smile. "Little one was born without a father," she began, her voice laced with feigned sorrow. "Seeing you three, a happy family, it just... it doesn't feel right in my heart." She spoke words of self-pity, yet in her eyes, an undeniable smugness shimmered, impossible to conceal. Desmond looked up, his anguish palpable, his eyes slightly reddened. "Seraphina…" he whispered, as if her pain were his own. I dug my nails into my palms, the sharp sting a welcome distraction from the emotional agony, pulling me back from my daze. Across the room, Seraphina sighed deeply, then carried Anya, my Anya, to another bed. I took a deep, shaky breath, forcing down the bitter ache in my chest, and reached out, intending to take the baby from Desmond's arms and comfort her. "Darling," I said, my voice carefully neutral, "is the baby hungry? I'll go get some water to prepare her formula." 2 Desmond pulled the baby closer, his brow furrowed in disdain. "My daughter," he declared, his voice sharp, "will naturally be breastfed. Why are you talking about formula? Can't you be a little responsible?" He paused, then his gaze hardened, locking onto mine. "Joanna Grant, let me tell you, we're only having one child, and I intend to give her the best of everything! You'd better not get any ideas about a second or third child!" With that, he practically pushed the baby into my arms, gesturing for me to feed her at once. I turned my face away, my heart churning with a bitter ache, which swiftly morphed into a burning anger. Before our daughter was born, he had constantly told me to formula-feed the baby from birth, claiming his mother would take over after my postpartum recovery so I could return to work promptly. His harsh words still echoed in my mind, vivid and unforgiving: "Joanna Grant, I know your family has money, but you need to learn to be self-reliant. Don't just sit at home being a full-time mother! From now on, the baby will be cared for by a nanny and my mother." So it was clear, wasn't it? The ones who held his heart, who truly mattered, were always Seraphina and her daughter. My daughter wasn't worth his concern, nor was she deemed worthy of growing up in her mother's embrace. Because he didn't care, he didn't think of her. It wasn't until Anya, still cradled in Seraphina's arms, burst into heartbroken sobs that my self-pitying thoughts were cut short. Hearing my daughter's cries, I involuntarily took half a step forward, my whole being drawn to her distress. Seraphina frowned, impatiently placing Anya on the bed. As if an afterthought, she quickly explained to Desmond and me: "It's called 'cry-it-out.' It helps to train a child's independence. After all, this child was born without a father; I can't spoil her further." Anya cried piteously, but Seraphina simply continued scrolling on her phone, utterly unconcerned. Her preposterous words made my fists clench, and fury surged through me: "A three-day-old infant, training for what damn independence, Seraphina? Crying and fussing are a baby's natural instincts! If you let her continue like this, she'll cry herself sick!" Anya's cries tore at my heart. Overwhelmed by a fierce protective instinct, I moved to rush over and pick her up. But Desmond, standing beside me, coldly blocked my path. "Joanna Grant! What right do you have to lecture Seraphina?" he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. "What do you even amount to?" My mind exploded. My blood ran cold, and my entire body began to tremble uncontrollably. He knew. He knew the one crying her heart out, tearing her tiny lungs apart, was our child! Stiffly, I turned to Desmond, my voice thick with emotion. "The baby is crying, can't you hear her?" Desmond frowned deeply, his eyes devoid of any emotion. He looked at me with open displeasure: "It's Seraphina's own child. Don't you think she cares? Why should you, an outsider, feel pity?" I almost couldn't stop myself from demanding how he could be so cruel. But the words caught in my throat. I swallowed the bitter lump and reluctantly looked away, my heart aching. Yet the desperate resolve in my heart only solidified. Anya's cries grew hoarse, but Desmond seemed not to hear them at all, focused solely on the baby he held. He didn't even spare Anya a single glance. My fists clenched. I just needed an opportunity. An opportunity to secretly switch the two babies back. Seraphina's child was born without a father. I wouldn't let my Anya grow up without one too. She deserved a life of comfort and love, a life filled with two parents who adored her! I swore silently in my heart: Anya, trust your mother. I will make sure you receive all the love, both fatherly and motherly, that you deserve. Newborns, after three days, were scheduled for a communal bath at the hospital. Holding this unfamiliar baby in my arms, I knew: this afternoon, I would get my Anya back. Anya had a tiny red mole behind her ear. Only I knew about it. Since the day she was born, I had been the one feeding her, changing her diapers—never letting anyone else take over. Desmond didn't know. Seraphina didn't know. Did they truly believe that by swapping blankets and wristbands, they could take my daughter from me? Ha, how could they? She was the daughter I held in the palm of my hand, the one I guarded even at night, too afraid to fall into a deep sleep. In the afternoon, Seraphina's mother arrived. Spotting the sleeping baby on the bed, she snapped impatiently: "A jinxed, money-wasting girl! Just get out of the hospital already, stop throwing money away!" Seraphina's husband had passed away half a month ago, never even getting to see his own child. In a way, he was a pitiable man. Seraphina's mother's voice was loud, drawing stares from several people. The two babies in the room, startled by the sudden harsh sound, both burst into tears simultaneously. Desmond frowned slightly, as if displeased by my momentary distraction. He snatched the baby from my arms and began to soothe her in a low voice. My gaze didn't dare leave Anya for a second. Her cries broke my heart, ripping me apart from the inside. Seraphina's mother, hearing Anya's cries, grew even more impatient. She roughly pulled open the baby's blanket, her grimy fingers harshly poking Anya's tiny face: 3 "Cry, cry, cry, that's all you know how to do!" Seraphina's mother snarled, her voice sharp and cutting. "Your father was cried away by you! If I'd known she was just a girl, I shouldn't have let her be born!" Noticing the displeased glances from others in the ward, Seraphina, who still cared about appearances, half-heartedly interjected: "Mother, please, don't say such things to the baby." I watched Seraphina coldly, but her eyes never truly left her phone screen. How could a family like this possibly raise a child well? Yet my husband was so blind and senseless, convinced the whole world owed Seraphina, practically willing to sacrifice everything to make it up to her! Seraphina's mother snorted, finally stopping her loud rant. She mumbled: "I'll take the child back to the countryside to raise her. Seraphina, you're still young, quickly find another partner! Preferably a wealthy one, so I'll have something to look forward to in my old age..." Seeing her mother's words grow increasingly outrageous, Seraphina finally lifted her head from her phone, her gaze instinctively darting towards Desmond. Her eyes reddened slightly, and she answered listlessly: "Mother, back then... I couldn't marry the one I wanted. Now, it doesn't matter who I marry." Desmond lowered his head, his gaze fixed on the baby in the swaddle he believed was Seraphina’s. He appeared calm on the surface, but only I could discern his profound sense of loss and isolation. He held the baby, no longer attempting to soothe her, his fingers clenching the bedsheet until it was a wrinkled mess. Every word Seraphina had uttered had deeply resonated with him, twisting his features with silent pain. And my daughter, who was to be taken to the countryside, burdened with the stigma of being 'ill-fated,' elicited no reaction from him whatsoever. Instead, he was lost in thought, affected only by Seraphina's words. I stared at his slightly pale face, my gaze fixed on him, probing softly: "Darling, Seraphina's child... she's quite pitiful, isn't she?" My eyes remained glued to Desmond, searching for a flicker of compassion, reluctance, or even a hint of guilt. But there was none. Desmond abruptly looked up at me, his eyes filled with a chilling coldness. He pressed his lips together, speaking softly: "She was simply born under an unlucky star. No one is to blame." I stared at him, bewildered, as if I had never truly seen him before. But I realized, for the first time, I couldn't truly recognize him. Or perhaps, today was the first time I truly knew him. The Desmond before me was cold, indifferent, effortlessly casting the heavy words "born under an unlucky star" onto our daughter, and simultaneously, crushing my heart. An unknown emotion surged in my chest, pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe. The oppressive atmosphere in the ward made my heart pound with anxiety. I turned away, to hide the glistening tears in my eyes from him. Desmond’s gaze suddenly fell on me. He stared, cold and unyielding. "Joanna Grant, you've been strange all morning. When did you start caring so much about other people's affairs?" I exhaled slowly, pushing out the heavy air in my lungs, and managed a weak smile. "Just seeing the baby, I felt a little... sorry for her." Desmond's brow furrowed even tighter. He looked confused for a moment, then a sneer touched his lips. "Ha," he scoffed. "You're truly overflowing with sympathy, aren't you? Joanna Grant, instead of worrying about other people's children, why don't you pay more attention to your own daughter!" When the nurse announced it was time to take the newborns for their bath, my gaze fell on Seraphina, who remained unmoving. "Seraphina," I ventured, trying to sound casual, "aren't you taking your daughter for her bath?" Seraphina glanced at Anya, still bundled in her blanket, and was about to say something when her mother quickly cut in. "No bath for her! A girl like that, why waste money?" Anger flared in my chest, but I suppressed it, remembering my plan. "It's free, Auntie," I said, my voice sweet despite the simmering rage. "The hospital provides it." Upon hearing my words, Seraphina's mother's eyes lit up. Driven by the philosophy of never missing a freebie, she snatched Anya from the bed. "Then she's bathing! Your city hospitals really do have good service!" Seraphina's mother, holding Anya, followed me out of the ward step for step. From the corner of my eye, I saw Seraphina immediately make her way to Desmond, who was sitting on the visitor's couch. His eyes, as he looked at her, were filled with guilt. I bit down hard on my lip, forcing myself to be calm. Don't be impulsive, I told myself, for our daughter's happiness, just bear it for a little while longer! At the infant bathing room, the nurse instructed us to line up to send the babies in. Family members were to wait outside. Anya was sent in first. Seraphina's mother, bored while waiting by the door, started chatting with me. Upon learning that the baby I held was also a girl, she pursed her lips, her eyes filled with disdain. "Tsk, what's the use of having a daughter?" My expression instantly froze. I had no desire to speak further with such an ignorant and narrow-minded person.
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