My Sister Claimed I Stole Her Baby

My sister, Bella, had a baby in a back-alley shithole.

Then she disappeared.

A midwife tracked me down using an address Bella left behind.

She shoved the newborn at me like a sack of garbage.

My parents fell to their knees. Crying. Begging me to take her bastard.

Just like that, my future as a promising artist was gone.

The neighbors, the priest, my landlord… they all called me a whore. A sinner who had disgraced God.

They ran me out of the neighborhood .

My life was over.

Eighteen years later, Bella waltzed back into my life.

A cheap thug with a fake Rolex dangled from her arm.

She held my son, crocodile tears streaming down her face.

She called me jealous. Accused me of stealing her flesh and blood. Of keeping a mother from her child.

And my son? The one I bled myself dry for?

The son I poured every last cent into, turning him into a brilliant painter?

The son I starved for, so much that I ended up in a hospital bed?

The moment he saw his "real" mother, he cast me aside without a second thought.

"You pathetic, broke bitch!" he spat. "You stole everything from us! All the happiness that was supposed to be ours!"

My parents threw me out like a dog.

Bella's thug husband had his men corner me in the red-light district.

They pinned me against a wall, their threats vile and clear: Never come back.

I had no way out. I threw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Then, I opened my eyes.

I was back. Eighteen years in the past.

Then came the knock. Hell had found my door.

I wasn’t going to be the fool who gave everything and got nothing.

This time, I took control.

My sister, Bella, had a baby in a back-alley shithole.

Then she disappeared.

A midwife tracked me down using an address Bella left behind.

She shoved the newborn at me like a sack of garbage.

My parents fell to their knees. Crying. Begging me to take her bastard.

Just like that, my future as a promising artist was gone.

The neighbors, the priest, my landlord… they all called me a whore. A sinner who had disgraced God.

They ran me out of the neighborhood .

My life was over.

Eighteen years later, Bella waltzed back into my life.

A cheap thug with a fake Rolex dangled from her arm.

She held my son, crocodile tears streaming down her face.

She called me jealous. Accused me of stealing her flesh and blood. Of keeping a mother from her child.

And my son? The one I bled myself dry for?

The son I poured every last cent into, turning him into a brilliant painter?

The son I starved for, so much that I ended up in a hospital bed?

The moment he saw his "real" mother, he cast me aside without a second thought.

"You pathetic, broke bitch!" he spat. "You stole everything from us! All the happiness that was supposed to be ours!"

My parents threw me out like a dog.

Bella's thug husband had his men corner me in the red-light district.

They pinned me against a wall, their threats vile and clear: Never come back.

I had no way out. I threw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Then, I opened my eyes.

I was back. Eighteen years in the past.

Then came the knock. Hell had found my door.

I wasn’t going to be the fool who gave everything and got nothing.

This time, I took control.

...

Before dawn. The knocking sounded like Death, here to collect.

I was soaked in a cold sweat.

In my last life, that midwife banged on the door just like this.

Loud enough to wake the whole damn building.

In front of everyone, she shoved that wrinkled baby into my arms and screeched that I was an irresponsible whore.

I'll never forget the way the neighbors looked at me.

That mix of scorn, disgust, and that holier-than-thou smugness.

Father Wilson of St. Mary's had my name struck from the list of volunteers for "defiling God's gift of purity."

My landlady, Linda, showed up the next day to kick me out.

Said she couldn't have an "unclean woman" ruining the building's reputation.

What broke my heart was how everything I'd built in the art world turned to dust.

The Williams Gallery canceled my solo show.

An art critic for the New York Times wrote a hit piece on my "moral decay."

Not a single collector would look at my work again.

But the worst part was pushing away the one person who actually cared.

When I was at my lowest, someone anonymously sent me expensive art supplies.

They quietly bought my most expensive piece.

Mr. Williams once hinted, "He's watching out for you. Says real talent shouldn't be buried by gossip."

I knew it was him.

Dante Moretti.

The man who owned Chicago's shadows.

In my last life, pride and pain made me a fool.

I ignored every lifeline he threw me.

I swallowed the poison alone.

But now, I wouldn't be their fool again.

Now, that woman's shrill voice was back.

"Elena! You bitch! Open this door!"

The midwife's voice sliced through the door, joined by Father Wilson's condemnation in a chorus from hell.

"Elena! Stop playing dead! Do you think we don't know what you've done?"

The banging got louder, crazier.

Her curses echoed in the hall.

"The whole building's watching! The priest from Saint Mary's is here! You godless slut!"

I looked through the peephole.

My heart almost stopped.

It wasn't just the midwife.

Father Wilson was there, holding a cross.

A few of the neighborhood gossips were there, too.

Someone was even holding a camera, ready to snap a picture.

The memory hit me like a fist.

Those photos ended up in the local rag.

The headline: The Ugly Truth of a Fallen Artist.

I remember that feeling, like the whole world was judging me.

Every step was like walking on broken glass.

A jolt went through me.

I got up, barefoot, and yanked the door open.

A familiar, greedy face.

She was holding a bundle.

Behind her, half the floor was crowded around, whispering.

"Finally decided to open up?" she snarled. "You know how long I've been waiting?"

She shoved the bundle into my arms.

A weak cry came from inside the blankets.

"Your baby! You know child abandonment is a felony in New York?"

Her spit nearly hit my face.

I looked down. A baby.

A newborn.

The neighbors started pointing.

Their whispers hit me like ghosts from the past:

"God, is Elena even married?"

"A baby? She's so young! She always seemed so innocent."

"Doesn't look like she's married... a baby out of wedlock! It's a sin against God!"

"Women like her should be kicked out of the neighborhood! She'll be a bad influence on our children!"

Father Wilson held up his cross. "Child, you have disappointed the Lord. Your parents can't even show their faces in church."

The talk was a wave, about to drown me.

The midwife raised her voice, making sure everyone could hear.

"Elena, you think you can screw around with some bum and then just dump the kid on someone else? This is your responsibility!"

In my past life, I chose silence. I accepted it all.

I thought if I was patient and kind, they would understand.

I believed my family would protect me.

All I got was humiliation and a social death sentence.

But not this time.

I won't let anyone trample on me again.

I gently placed the baby on the shoe rack by the door and turned back into the apartment.

My eyes landed on the heavy sculpture on my desk.

t was a decorative bronze pistol, with a sharp, dangerous-looking barrel.

I knew it was hollow, just for show. But it was convincing.

It was my entry for the Chicago Art Fair.

One of the judges was Dante's art consultant.

Please, God, let this work.

I grabbed the sculpture and stormed back out.

"What was that?" I stalked toward the midwife, the sculpture held like a weapon. "Say it again. I dare you."

"What... what are you doing?" She stumbled back.

I pressed the sharp edge of the sculpture to her temple.

My voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "A new mother is a cornered animal. You think I don't have the strength to cave your skull in?"

The crowd gasped.

"She's crazy... Elena's lost her mind..."

"Someone call the cops!"

The midwife's face went white. "You... you can't..."

"I can't what?" I smiled, a cold, sharp smile. "You barge into my home, humiliate me in front of everyone, and you expect me to just take it?"

I looked around at the neighbors, at their faces hungry for gossip.

"Ladies and gentlemen, does a normal midwife run around the streets holding a stranger's baby, calling them out by name?"

The crowd started murmuring.

"That does seem strange..."

"Maybe she's a kidnapper?"

The midwife panicked. "I'm not! I'm a registered..."

"Registered what?" I cut her off, pressing the sculpture in a little deeper. "A registered midwife hands a baby to a stranger without any hospital papers? A registered midwife spreads rumors and slander in public?"

She started to shake. "Elena, don't make things up..."

"Am I?" My voice went soft, but it was more dangerous. "Then let's have certain people decide if you're following proper procedure."

I pulled out my phone and pretended to dial.

"Let's call Chicago." My voice was deceptively calm. "See what they think of midwives who help steal babies. I'm sure they can… clear this up."

The midwife's eyes went wide.

In this neighborhood, any threat involving Chicago was no joke.

"Wait!" She threw her hands up. "I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!"

Just then, footsteps pounded up the stairs.

"Elena!" my mother gasped, my father right behind her. "We heard... child, this has to be a misunderstanding..."

"A misunderstanding?" I turned to them, not lowering the sculpture. "What misunderstanding?"

My mother saw the weapon in my hand.

Her voice trembled. "Elena, put that down. Let's talk this through..."

"Talk about what?" I sneered. "How this woman broke into my home to slander me? Or why you two just happened to show up?"

My father tried to grab the sculpture. "That's enough, Elena! Stop this!"

I stepped back, aiming it at him. "Don't touch me."

The midwife, seeing her chance, finally broke. "It was Bella! Your sister, Bella, sent me! She said if there were any problems, I should find you! She gave me your address!"

The hallway went dead silent.

I looked at my parents' shocked faces and let a cruel smile spread across my lips.

"I see." I put the sculpture down and dusted off my hands. "Well, that makes things simple."

I picked up the baby and walked to the midwife. "A bastard's blood would ruin my art. I don't want it."

"Elena!" my mother screamed. "You can't! That's your..."

"My what?" I cut her off, my eyes like ice. "My burden? My shame? Or the mistake someone else made that I'm supposed to carry?"

The midwife was cornered.

She finally exploded.

She screamed, "You tell Bella she can clean up her own damn mess! Don't you dare try to dump it on me!"