He blinked, then looked away. “It’s… It’s just a kid who looks similar to our baby.
You’re imagining things.”
“Just a kid?” Disbelief flooded my voice. “Mark, that’s Emma!”
I was stunned by his tone, but didn’t argue. Then he walked past me and into the bedroom.
I stood there, staring at the empty hallway. But I already knew then that I wouldn’t leave it like that. I had to find out the truth.
The next day, I drove to the orphanage while Mark was at work. When I arrived, the building looked warm and welcoming. A staff member led me down a hallway and into an office.
The director, Miss Jameson, greeted me with a polite smile. “You must be Claire.”
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you for seeing me.”
I didn’t waste time.
I pulled out my phone and showed her the photo. “This girl,” I said, “looks exactly like my daughter who died 10 years ago.”
The moment Miss Jameson saw the girl’s photo compared to Emma’s, her expression changed. Her face went pale.
She looked up at me. “You know something, don’t you?” I asked. Then she said, “Well, I knew this wouldn’t remain hidden forever and that one day the whole truth would come out.”
A chill ran through me.
“What truth?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Jameson gestured toward the chair. “Please sit.
What I’m about to tell you may come as a shock.”
I quickly sat down. The director sighed. “I didn’t know you were involved in this.”
She hesitated, then continued.
“Our home has worked with a local sperm bank. Sometimes, when prospective parents don’t connect with a child here, we refer them there as an alternative.”
“Okay…”
“But recently,” Jameson went on, “there’s been a scandal involving that facility.”
“What kind of scandal?”
She shook her head. “It’s complicated and serious.
We’ve already begun cutting ties with them.”
“Then why are you telling me this?” I pressed. She looked at me. “Because of that photo.
I think you need to hear the rest from someone who knows more. I have a source who’s been cooperating quietly. Come back tomorrow at 2 p.m.
I’ll arrange a meeting.”
I stared at her, my mind racing. Then I nodded and got up to leave. Is anyone surprised that I drove home in a daze?
I mean, nothing made sense. A scandal? A sperm bank?
A girl who looked exactly like my dead daughter?
What kind of truth was I about to uncover?
When Mark arrived that evening, I told him everything. I expected confusion. Maybe concern.
What I got was anger. “You’re not going back there,” he said immediately. “What?”
“This is going too far!” he said, his voice rising.
“Mark, there’s a girl who looks exactly like Emma! Don’t you want to know why?”
“No!”
I stared at him. “Why not?”
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing.
“Because digging into this will just… mess with your head.”
“My head is already messed up!” I snapped. “I need answers!”
“Just drop it, Claire.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I need some air,” Mark muttered, grabbing his keys.
“Wait!”
But he was already out the door. That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything. The photo.
Jameson’s face. Mark’s reaction. None of it felt right.
I called my husband multiple times. He didn’t answer. That morning, I woke up alone.
It seemed I’d drifted into sleep. The bed was untouched on his side. I sat up, confused, and then walked down the hallway.
The guest bedroom door was ajar. Inside, the bed was clearly slept in. Why would he sleep in here?
A strange feeling settled in my chest.
For a moment, I considered canceling the meeting, but then I saw Emma’s face in my mind and the girl from the website. I quickly showered, dressed, and grabbed my keys. I arrived 10 minutes early.
The orphanage looked the same as the day before, but I felt none of that warmth as I stepped inside. A staff member recognized me. “You’re here to see Miss Jameson?”
I nodded.
She led me to the director’s office, knocked lightly, then opened the door. “She’s here.”
“Thank you,” Miss Jameson said from inside. I walked in.
Jameson sat at her desk, and beside her was a young man, maybe in his early 20s. He looked nervous. “Claire,” the director said gently, “this is Charles.”
He gave me a small nod.
“Hi.”
I greeted him and sat down. “You said he had answers.”
The director took her seat. “He does.”
Charles cleared his throat.
“I… I didn’t know about you, but when Miss Jameson told me about your daughter, I understood why this meeting had to happen.”
Charles glanced at Jameson, then back at me. “There’s been a pattern.
For the past five years, there’s been a donor. Red hair. Freckles.
Blue eyes.”
My breath caught. “He’s given lots of donations,” he continued. “Way more than normal.
At first, nobody questioned it. He passed all the health screenings. Strong profile.
Good genetics. But then… things started getting strange.”
“Strange how?” I pressed.
“Families would come in with specific requests, with different backgrounds and preferences. But somehow, a lot of them ended up with kids who looked like the donor, even when that wasn’t what they asked for.”
My chest felt tight. “It didn’t make sense,” Charles continued, “until we found out the owner of the facility was involved.”
Jameson’s expression hardened.
“The owner was prioritizing his samples, fast-tracking them, and ignoring client specifications.”
“Why?” I asked. Charles hesitated. “Because she’s in a relationship with him.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“She favored him,” he said. “Used his donations over others. It got out of control.
There are dozens of children now. Maybe more.”
“And some of those kids,” Jameson added, “ended up here. Parents realized something wasn’t right.
Some couldn’t cope. Some demanded answers. Others just…
walked away.”
My hands trembled. “The girl I saw…?”
Charles nodded. “The girl on the orphanage’s website is one of them.
She came through our records. I can’t give you names, but I can tell you this… she came from that donor.”
I swallowed hard.
“So you’re saying… there’s a man out there who has… what, dozens of children who all look the same?”
“Pretty much, yes,” Charles said.
