The DNA test said: “The son is not biologically yours.” I was sobbing—until my husband whispered, “I know. I switched him at the maternity hospital…” A sheet of paper lay on the kitchen oilcloth, white and alien among the familiar mugs and bread crumbs. It smelled of ozone, cheap printer ink, and that sterile medical fear that makes your stomach clench. I stared at the black lines of the final report, but the letters swam, dissolving into meaningless tangles. My vision was failing, as if my brai