The Day Rewritten
1896 Words
Chapter Two: The Day Rewritten
Beeping.
Rhythmic. Sharp. Familiar.
The sound sliced through the haze like a scalpel, tugging her from darkness into fragile awareness.
Catherine's eyes fluttered open to the blinding glare of fluorescent lights overhead, cold and sterile. Her lashes trembled against the burn of antiseptic air. Her body was damp with sweat, her chest tight—not with the decay of disease, but something... new. Something wrong.
Pain bloomed in her lower abdomen. Deep, stretching pain. A throbbing ache between her legs.
Not the withering weight of chemotherapy or the slow fade of organ failure—this was sharper. Real.
Immediate.
She gasped.
Her fingers clawed at the starched sheets beneath her. Everything felt too real.
A nurse noticed.
“Vitals are climbing,” she called softly to someone just out of view. “She’s waking up.”
Catherine turned her head with effort, heart pounding. The room blurred. Figures moved—blue scrubs, white coats. One nurse leaned over, soft-eyed, calm.
“Mrs. Alaric, you’re safe,” she said gently. “You just delivered. Your body’s still recovering, but everything went well.”
Catherine blinked.
Delivered?
She stared at the woman. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
A doctor appeared, adjusting his stethoscope. “Welcome back, Mrs. Alaric. You had some bleeding after labor, so we had to administer fluids and keep you sedated. But you’re stable now. The baby is in the nursery—healthy, strong.”
The words barely registered.
Her hands moved slowly, shakily, to her stomach. Still soft, still sore—but not hollow.
The grief wasn’t there. Not like before. Not in the same way.
“Where... am I?” she finally rasped, voice cracked like old paper.
“St. Ignatius Medical,” the doctor replied, calmly checking her vitals. “You were admitted yesterday. Everything’s okay.”
St. Ignatius Medical.
She knew that name. Knew it too well.
A nurse turned and smiled gently. “You’re in the recovery room, Mrs. Alaric. You’ve just given birth.”
Birth?
Her throat closed. Her heart slammed against her ribs like a warning bell. Her eyes widened as memories slammed into her skull like thunder.
The hospital bed. Michelle’s confession. Her daughter stolen. Her son—not her son. Her life stolen. Her death.
But she was here. Alive. Awake. Not at death’s door, but pulled back to the moment when it all began.
“No,” she whispered, almost to herself. “This isn’t right.”
The nurse frowned. “Mrs. Alaric?”
Alaric.
The sound of that name jolted through her.
That was her name then. Before everything. Before the betrayal.
The name she wanted to abandoned when she finally woke up from the betrayal.
Her fingers curled into the sheet. “What... what day is it?”
The nurse exchanged a glance with the doctor.
“It’s August 16,” the nurse replied slowly. “2020.”
Catherine’s breath caught.
“No,” she gasped. “No. That’s not—It’s supposed to be—” Her voice broke off. A sob punched its way up from her chest. “I was dying. I was—”
The nurse reached out, gently brushing a damp strand of hair from Catherine’s face. “You were just under a lot of stress. Childbirth can feel like that sometimes. But you’re okay now. You’re going to be okay.”
But she wasn’t. Not really.
Because the last thing Catherine remembered was a hospital room very much like this one… but it was quiet. The machines were slowing. Her body was frail. She confronted Ronan about Michelle, about her baby. She remembered looking at Leo's photo.
And now?
Now she was in a different hospital bed. Her body wasn’t dying—it had just given life.
“No,” Catherine whispered again. “This isn’t real.”
Then—suddenly—a louder cry pierced the room.
A baby’s cry.
Everything went still inside her.
The doctor turned, smiling faintly. “Looks like someone’s ready to meet you.”
Catherine froze.
And then the door opened, and a nurse wheeled in a bassinet.
Inside, swaddled in soft pink, was a newborn.
“My baby…” she rasped. “Let me see my baby.”
The nurse hesitated, then nodded.
A nurse gently placed a small bundle wrapped in pink blankets into Catherine’s arms.
Pink?
Catherine blinked furiously.
The blanket shifted—and inside, she saw a tiny face, perfect and red and softly whimpering.
A girl.
A girl.
“It’s a girl?” she asked, breath caught in her chest.
The nurse blinked. “No, ma’am. It’s a boy. Your husband just held him earlier.”
No. No. That wasn’t right.
Catherine sat up too fast, ignoring the scream in her body. “That’s not my baby,” she said hoarsely. “I saw her. I remember holding my
daughter before I passed out.”
The nurse’s smile faltered. “Ma’am—”
“Get my parents,” Catherine snapped, trembling. “Now.”
The nurse left, clearly shaken, and minutes later, her parents burst through the door, wide-eyed and anxious.
“Catherine!” her mother cried, rushing to her side.
She gripped her mother’s hand. “Mom… Dad… they switched my baby.”
“What?” her father asked, face hardening.
“I saw her,” Catherine insisted. “She was a girl. But now they’re saying I had a boy. Something’s wrong. Please—check the hospital records. Security cameras. I know I sound crazy, but I swear I’m not.”
Her father didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his phone and began making calls. Her mother stood by her, a steady hand on her shoulder.
It didn’t take long.
Their family was powerful—wealthy, respected, with influence in the hospital board. Within hours, they had security footage, witness statements, and more.
And just like that—Catherine was proven right.
Her child had been switched.
“We’ve traced the nurse who left your room after delivery,” her father said, voice trembling with fury. “She was seen handing a baby girl to someone outside. A man.”
Catherine’s heart lurched. “Where is she now?”
They found the man in a run-down neighborhood hours later. He had the child—alive, crying, hungry, but unharmed.
“I didn’t want to hurt her,” he explained nervously. “I just found her at my doorstep. I thought… maybe someone didn’t want her. I was going to take her to the orphanage, but someone offered money. Said they’d raise her. I swear, I didn’t know—”
Catherine didn’t care about his excuses.
She reached for the child in his arms—her child—and the moment she cradled that tiny body against her chest, the world stopped.
Her daughter.
Her face—round, pink, wailing—was unmistakable.
She felt a comforting glow deep within her.
Mira.
This was Mira newborn. Soft and untouched by the cruel hands of time or betrayal.
A strangled sound escaped Catherine’s lips as her mom gently approached her.
“She’s perfect,” her mom said warmly. “You’ve been through a lot, but she’s strong. Just like her mother.”
Catherine stared down at the baby—her daughter—and everything around her spun.
Tears poured down her cheeks before she could stop them. She held the baby tighter, drinking in the scent of newness, of hope. Her fingers traced the baby’s impossibly tiny fist as it curled against her chest.
She was back.
She was whole again.
And now she wouldn’t waste it.
Later that evening, Catherine sat alone in her private recovery room. The lights were low, her daughter asleep in her arms. But her heart was far from calm.
There was a knock.
A nurse peeked in. “Mrs. Alaric… there's been a development.”
Catherine looked up slowly. “Go on.”
“It’s about the baby boy. The one… the one you were given earlier.”
She tensed. “What about him?”
The nurse stepped inside, her expression conflicted. “We contacted the woman listed as his mother. Michelle Reyes. She refused to take him. She… said he was a mistake.”
Catherine’s breath hitched.
Of course, she did.
Michelle had never been the type to care for anything but her own reflection.
“She refused custody?” Catherine asked, her voice cool but shaking.
“She did. In fact, she signed a waiver relinquishing all rights.” The nurse hesitated. “We’re placing him in temporary care for now, but we thought… since you’ve formed a bond—”
“No,” Catherine interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended. “I haven’t formed a bond. He’s not mine.”
Silence lingered.
She looked down at her daughter’s peaceful face. Then, slowly, her eyes shifted to the cradle in the corner—where the baby boy now lay, swaddled and sleeping.
She didn’t want to look at him.
But she did.
He had Ronan’s jawline. A tuft of dark hair. The softest, most fragile hands.
And for a moment… she remembered the way she’d held him, even in confusion. How he’d cried until she whispered to him. How he’d stopped, as if he recognized her voice.
“Can I be alone with him?” Catherine finally asked.
The nurse nodded and gently wheeled the bassinet closer before stepping out and closing the door.
The baby stirred. Catherine stared at him from across the room, arms still wrapped around her daughter. For long minutes, she said nothing.
Just watched.
Then:
“You weren’t supposed to be mine,” she said softly. “You were a lie. A cruel one.”
The baby hiccupped in his sleep.
“But it wasn’t your fault.”
She exhaled, a trembling breath that carried the weight of betrayal, grief, and something new—compassion.
“You didn’t ask to be born into this mess. You didn’t choose her. Or him.”
She stood, walking slowly across the room with her daughter cradled in one arm. She looked down at the boy.
“I could give you away. And no one would blame me.” Her voice cracked. “But what kind of mother would that make me? What kind of woman?”
The boy stirred again, as if sensing her nearness.
She reached down and touched his hand.
He gripped her finger.
Tears spilled from her eyes.
“You don’t deserve to be punished for their sins,” she whispered. “And she’ll never love you. She has already cast you out like trash.”
She looked down at her daughter, then back to him.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. God knows I didn’t plan for any of this. But I survived to rewrite my story. And maybe… maybe you’re part of that story too.”
A pause.
Then, finally:
“If Michelle doesn’t want you…” Her voice steadied. “Then you’ll have me.”
She bent down, lifted him into her arms beside her daughter, and held them both—one child born of betrayal, the other of blood.
Two innocent lives tangled in the war of adults.
And Catherine?
She was no longer the broken wife.
She was a mother.
And she would protect them both.
- Writer
