Whose Daughter Is She?​​

At forty-seven, my husband Arthur was on death’s door, and he chose that moment to confess. He told me that the daughter we had raised, Aubrey, was not my child. She was his sister-in-law’s. He had switched our babies while I was lost in a postpartum haze, moments after giving birth. But his sister-in-law's child… at six years old, she’d had a raging fever. They didn't get her to the hospital in time. The fever had damaged her brain. The look on my face must have been horrifying. Arthur wept, begging for my forgiveness. He swore that if there was a next life, he would marry me again and spend an eternity atoning for what he’d done. He had schemed against me for my entire life, and he still dared to imagine a next one? Only the weak pin their hopes on fairy tales of rebirth and second chances for revenge. I’m the type to settle a score then and there. Besides, had he really been so blind all these years? Didn't he ever notice that the child bore no resemblance to him, or to his precious sister-in-law? 1 After Arthur got the lab results from the hospital, he came home and locked himself in his study. He didn’t come out all afternoon. I knew he was taking it hard, so I left him alone. Not long after, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Arthur's sister-in-law, Helen, standing on the porch. Behind her stood her daughter, Sophie—the poor girl whose mind had been frozen in time by that fever years ago. Helen’s brow was furrowed. The first words out of her mouth were, "Is Aubrey home yet?" Aubrey is my daughter. She's twenty-two and still in college. I shook my head. "Not yet." Then, my curiosity piqued, "Why? Is something wrong?" Helen ignored me, pushing past me into the living room as if she owned the place. I gently guided Sophie, who was lingering by the door, inside. When I turned around, Helen was sitting on the sofa, arms crossed, watching us. "You know, Nina," she said, her eyes cold despite the smirk playing on her lips, "from this angle, you and Sophie actually look a bit alike." I didn't respond. It wasn't the first time she'd said that. We weren't related by blood. How could her daughter possibly look like me? I had just sat down across from her when she pressed on impatiently, "Arthur is in this state, and you're still planning on keeping it from Aubrey?" Arthur had only received his diagnosis two hours ago. How did Helen already know everything? Before I could answer, the study door opened. Arthur, who had been hiding in there since he got home, finally emerged. His eyes landed on Helen, and his lips trembled, but the word "Helen" never quite escaped. The report confirmed it: late-stage lung cancer. It had already spread. He’d missed the window for effective treatment. He only had a few months left. They stared at each other for a long moment before Helen spoke. "Arthur, I still think we shouldn't hide this from Aubrey. She's your daughter, after all. Don't you agree?" She put a sharp, deliberate emphasis on the words "your daughter." Arthur was silent for a while before finally nodding. "You're right. We shouldn't hide it from her." The two of them went back and forth, their glances loaded with unspoken meaning, treating me as if I were invisible. I pretended not to notice. I hadn't cared when I was young; why would I get worked up over a dying man now? Arthur didn’t have much family left. His parents and his older brother were long gone. Besides me and Aubrey, there was only Helen and his niece, Sophie. Just as Arthur was about to call Aubrey, I stepped in. "Aubrey's summer break starts in two weeks. It can wait a few more days." Arthur thought for a moment and nodded, putting his phone away. Helen's face darkened. She shot me a sideways glance. "You're quite the controlling mother, aren't you?" I offered a thin smile. "What parent doesn't want what's best for their child?" "True enough," she said, her tone dripping with insinuation. "A pity about my poor, simple-minded girl. No matter how much I plan for her future, it's useless." Sophie sat beside me, blissfully unaware, her head bowed as she played with her fingers. The contrast between her innocence and her mother’s calculated bitterness was stark. Helen’s words were a joke. What had she ever planned for Sophie? The girl was in her twenties with a buzz cut, dressed in clothes that hung off her frame, her skin tanned to leather. She looked nothing like a young woman should. Arthur walked over and sat on the same sofa as Helen, leaving an empty space between them. Since everyone was here, I asked him, "What kind of treatment are you considering?" Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, his face a mask of despair. "I haven't decided yet." He looked terrible. The diagnosis seemed to have drained the very life force from him. Helen was scrolling on her phone, pretending not to hear. Doctors are always ambiguous, probably to keep patients from losing hope. They don't say it's incurable, but they don't promise a cure, either. They create an illusion: with the right treatment, there's a chance. Arthur was clinging to that illusion. He’d saved up a decent amount from his business over the years; paying for treatment wouldn't be an issue. It was at this point that Helen suddenly chimed in. "I think you should go for palliative care. That way, you won't suffer so much." Arthur's face turned ashen. In his mind, palliative care was the same as giving up. He usually deferred to Helen, but this was his life on the line. No matter how bravely a man talks about death, when it’s staring him in the face, the fear of the unknown takes over. That fear magnifies, breeding a ferocious will to live. Helen announced she would be staying with us, claiming I couldn't possibly manage Arthur on my own and that she, as his sister-in-law, needed to help. Arthur said nothing, just looked at me as if seeking my permission. I did have my own job to worry about. I had been planning on hiring a nurse. With Helen offering herself up, I had no reason to refuse. "That would be a great help, Helen. Thank you." She waved a dismissive hand. "We're family. No need for formalities." And she certainly wasn't formal. That evening, she lay on the sofa with a face mask on, binge-watching a TV series, and had the nerve to order me around. "God, I can't remember the last time the little dummy had a bath," she said. "Nina, be a dear and wash her for me, would you?" Sophie was engrossed in the television, giggling uncontrollably at a Tom and Jerry chase scene. I remembered her as a bright, adorable little girl, before the fever. Looking at her now, I could only think that having a mother like Helen was a cruel twist of fate. Sophie and Aubrey were born on the same day, with Aubrey being just three hours older. Sophie didn't want her cartoon to end and struggled when I tried to lead her away. Helen shot her a venomous glare and barked, "Go take a bath!" I felt Sophie's whole body flinch. She dropped to the floor, curled into a ball with her hands over her head, and let out a piercing scream. It was a classic trauma response, the reaction of a child who has been hit too many times. The noise brought Arthur out of his room. He glanced at Sophie, still screaming on the floor, then at Helen, his voice laced with annoyance. "Why are you yelling at her?" Helen snorted. "I regret not strangling her at birth." As she said it, she kept darting her eyes toward me. I stood by, a cold observer. Sophie was her only child. How she chose to treat her was her business. I had no right to interfere. When Arthur's friends heard he was sick, they started visiting in droves. It was too crowded to eat at home, so I booked a private room at a nearby hotel. These were men Arthur had worked with for years. Mindful of his condition, they kept the conversation light, reminiscing about good times and telling jokes to keep his spirits up. During the dinner, I noticed a man named Mark who seemed to know Helen. They exchanged loaded glances several times, a silent conversation passing between them. I didn't know Mark well; he'd only started doing business with Arthur a few years ago. Their friendship wasn't deep, and even Arthur seemed surprised to see him there. I watched them, my expression carefully neutral. At one point, Helen excused herself. A moment later, Mark also got up, mumbling something about the restroom, and followed her out. Others had left the table throughout the evening, so their dual departure didn't raise any suspicion. They returned nearly twenty minutes later, one after the other. Mark was in a noticeably better mood, suddenly more talkative. Then, whether by accident or design, he brought up the topic of assets and inheritance. A heavy silence fell over the table. The smile vanished from Arthur's face, and the hand holding his chopsticks began to tremble. The friend sitting next to Mark gave him a playful punch, trying to salvage the mood. "What are you talking about that for? Our Arthur is tough as nails. He'll pull through." A chorus of agreement followed, and the atmosphere began to lift. But then Helen cut in. "He's not wrong, though. Arthur, even if not for yourself, you have to think about the child, don't you?" When she said "yourself," her gaze flickered over to me, dripping with malice. Arthur and I put down our chopsticks at the same time. The meal was over.

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