It was late October, a storm rattling the old windows of the estate, when my mother went into labor with triplets.
The midwife and I were the only ones present in the attic nursery—a cramped, dimly lit room that smelled faintly of antiseptic and rain.
The birth itself was swift, yet marked by a tension that hung heavy in the air.
My mother lay on the narrow bed, her face a mask of concentration and pain.
As the first cries echoed in the room, a brief flicker of relief crossed her features.
But when the third child opened his eyes, everything changed.
His eyes were unsettlingly different.
A murmur of unease rippled through the room.
My mother’s face tightened.
It was a subtle change, yet it seemed as if a part of her was about to break.
She turned to the servant standing by, her voice barely a whisper.
“Take him away forever,” she said.
It was a quiet command, but it carried the weight of a secret no one dared question.
The servant nodded silently, stepping forward to take the child.
As they left the room, a profound silence settled over us.
That night has lingered at the edge of my memory.
Not because of the birth itself, but because of my mother’s expression as the servant stepped out with the baby.
It never sat right with me—why was one child so different?
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