For a long time, something hurt inside me, and I couldn’t name it. I’d watch my closest friend parenting her little girl, and the child had my eyes, my crooked smile, and even the way I twist my hair when I’m thinking. Every time she said “my daughter”, I felt a pull in my chest. I told myself it was just grief messing with my head. Seventeen years ago, I gave birth alone and terrified. I was young, the labour went wrong, and I passed out right after delivery. When I came to, the nurse said my baby hadn’t made it.
I screamed until I couldn’t anymore, then everything went blank. My friend never left my side. She held my hand, made phone calls, signed papers, and took care of everything while I barely functioned. A few months later, she told everyone she was pregnant—after years of doctors saying it would never happen. People called it a blessing. I tried to feel happy for her.
Then the baby arrived. The moment I saw her, something deep inside me shifted. The bond felt too strong, too immediate. As she grew, strangers commented on how much she looked like me. Some asked if we were related. My friend would laugh it off quickly and switch topics. I started having the same dream: holding a newborn, warm and breathing, then waking up empty. The resemblance got harder to ignore. I never had proof, just this quiet certainty growing over the years. Continue reading https://drbokko.com/?p=35929
