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[Olivia Jude Velcro]

“You must be elated to share this good news with Carter.” The message from doctor Homer made my heart race. A desperate teardrop fell over the screen of my shining phone. 

My whole married life flashed with happy moments. Combined with the painful ones when my husband and I tried endlessly to conceive. 

I squirmed with a gleeful sound in my seat and immediately composed myself in the empty room. “I should tell Carter and the family about this good news.” I glanced at the phone and checked the time. A smile curled along my lips and I was unable to contain my emotions.

My husband should be reaching home in an hour or two. It was the right time to tell him. I slid the phone into the pocket of my white coat and rose from my chair, preparing for my usual rounds.

Wiping my tears off the cheeks brashly it felt worth all the gruesome efforts. “He will be over the top upon hearing about my pregnancy.” I had been married to Carter Velcro for six years. 

Six steady, predictable years. Our marriage had never been loud, never turbulent. It was calm, mutual, built on agreements and patience. We had always been on the same page about children—later, after my career was secure. He had never pressured me. He had waited. Or so I believed.

I pressed a hand to my abdomen, barely there, barely real. “You will be a miracle baby,” I murmured with a soft chuckle.

The pungent scent of cleaning agents, injections, and medicines was prevalent when I did my usual round of the general ward. It made me slightly uncomfortable now that I am pregnant.

I was returning to my cabin when my phone vibrated. “What do I owe you, Homer?” I chuckled with a mischievous tone when I heard his voice. “It must be something urgent for you to call me at this hour.

Homer and I had been friends since college, bonded by sleepless nights and impossible exams. He only called when something mattered.

“A little girl. Six years old.”

Something inside me tightened.

“That’s too young,” I said immediately, my steps slowing. I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear and began stuffing my things into my bag. “Give me five minutes. I’m on my way.”

***

The child sat quietly on a stool outside Homer’s office.

Seeing her unsettled me in a way I couldn’t explain. She was too small, her feet barely touching the floor, her hands folded neatly in her lap. A strange ache bloomed in my chest—protective, irrational, fierce.

Hormones, I told myself.

“Hello, dearie! I am doctor Jude and—” I reached for her hands, warm and fragile in mine. “I will be doing this little magic to make you better.” She stared at me blankly until I pulled out a candy.

Her face lit up. “Thank you!” She spoke in a polite tone with a giggle. “My name is Candice.” She unwrapped the candy. “It rhymes with candy, you know. Can you make me better?” She asked me and continued licking. “Mommy is a bit worried about me, Doctor Jude.” 

Her voice melted my heart and I caressed her cheek. “I’ll do my best,” I whispered, brushing her cheek. “Where is your mommy?” Just then the door flung open and a woman stormed in with furious rage. “Don’t you dare touch my daughter!” 

She pulled Candice away and snatched the lollipop from Candice and threw it in the bin nearby. “Do you want to poison my child pretending to be a doctor!?” 

I looked at her, trying to find the reason for her unusually unhinged behavior. I froze, stunned, my hands still half-raised.

Before I could say anything, Doctor Homer walked in. “Mrs. Camilla, please calm down. My friend here is the specialist I told you about.” 

I forced a polite smile, but her eyes never softened. She looked at me as if I were something dangerous. Something unwelcome.

I retreated behind the partition, giving her space to settle—though unease had already begun to coil in my stomach.

Then I heard it.

“Look, Mommy! Daddy brought me ice cream!”

My heart skipped.

“Mr. Velcro,” Homer said warmly. “We’ve got the specialist here. Candice is in good hands now.”

My hands went numb.

Velcro.

Slowly—too slowly—I parted the curtain.

There he was.

Carter Velcro.

My husband.

He was crouched in front of Candice, smiling as she hugged him, ice cream smeared on her lips. And beside him stood Camilla, her hand resting possessively on the child’s shoulder. A family portrait, complete and seamless.

The room tilted.

The air rushed out of my lungs as realization slammed into me, brutal and merciless.

Was I… the other woman?

I didn’t remember leaving the room—only the cold rush of night air as I stumbled into the parking lot. My steps were too fast, my thoughts too loud.

No. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

We were having a child together.

My hands trembled as I gripped my bag. He didn’t know yet. The thought pierced me like glass.

Inside the car, the silence screamed. Candice was six. Six years old.

I covered my mouth as tears spilled freely. Had he been lying to me all this time?

Camilla’s hysteria replayed in my mind.

She knew.

She knew exactly who I was.

Olivia Jude Velcro.

I texted Homer, asking for Camilla’s address under the pretense of a home examination.

“How could you do this to me, Carter?” I whispered, resting my forehead against the steering wheel.

Sometime during the night, exhaustion overtook grief.

***

The next day, I stood before the mansion address Homer had given me.

At the gate, I forced a smile. “Is Camilla Velcro home? I’m a friend—didn’t know she moved here last year.”

The guard frowned. “The Velcros have lived here for years. Their baby girl is already six.” His gaze sharpened. “Are you really their friend?”

My heart stuttered, but I held steady.

“How is Candice?”

His posture relaxed instantly. “Poor child’s always sick. God bless her. Ever since they got married, she’s been in and out of hospitals. Nearly six years now.”

The words crushed what little hope I had left.

I walked back to my car on unsteady legs, finally understanding the cruel brilliance of Carter’s betrayal.

He hadn’t just cheated.

He had married both of us.

In the same year.

And in doing so, he had made me look like the other woman.

I sank into the driver’s seat, numb.

My marriage—my six years, my trust, my unborn child—had all been built on a lie.