Eight Years of Stolen Identity

My eight-year-old son was in a car crash. He was dying, and he needed a rare blood type: RH-negative. Panda blood. I rolled up my sleeve. “Doctor, take mine. I’m a match.” But my husband, Julian, grabbed my arm, his grip like steel. “Wait! I’ll call someone else! She has it, too!” I slapped the divorce papers onto his chest. “Fine. Let her come. But you sign these first.” He clutched the papers, his voice cracking. “Evelyn, are you fucking insane? Our son is lying in there fighting for his life, and you’re talking about divorce?” I stared at him, my face a cold mask. “I am.” His mother rushed forward, her hand flying to my face. The crack of the slap echoed in the sterile hallway. “You venomous bitch! Julian is just worried about your health, and you throw a tantrum!” I didn’t flinch. I walked to the door of the operating room and made an announcement that froze the world. “Doctor! Stop all pre-op preparations. The patient’s family is refusing the blood transfusion, and we are refusing the surgery.” Julian and his mother went rigid. He pointed a trembling finger at me. “You almost died in this hospital to save him. Evelyn, are you trying to kill him now?” I met his gaze, too tired to even show an expression. “I remember. But that was then. Now, I don’t want him anymore.”

1 The doctors and nurses stared at us, their movements ceasing. The air in the hallway outside the ER turned thick and heavy, punctuated only by the faint beeping of machinery. Julian’s eyes were shot with blood as he jabbed a finger in my direction. “Evelyn, say that again.” “I said, stop the surgery,” I repeated, my voice quiet but slicing through the silence. His mother snapped out of her shock and lunged at me again, but Julian caught her around the waist. She clawed at the air, her face contorted. “You heartless monster! Artie is in there! He’s your own flesh and blood! How could you say something so vile!” I watched her, silent. Struggling to restrain his mother, Julian roared at me, “What the hell do you want? Is this because I called Rachel? There’s nothing between us! It’s just… she has the same rare blood type, and I didn’t want you to go through that again!” “You didn’t want me to suffer?” I asked, my voice dripping with ice. “Julian, can you say that and actually believe it?” He choked on his words, his face darkening. “Is now the time for this? Our son’s life is on the line! Whatever you’re upset about, we can talk about it at home after the surgery is over!” “Home?” I looked at him. “Julian, we don’t have a home anymore.” I held the divorce papers out to him again. “Sign them. I’ve already contacted the blood bank and several volunteers. The second you sign, they’ll be on their way. There will be more than enough blood for Artie’s surgery.” His mother’s wailing stopped. Both she and Julian stared at me as if I were a madwoman. “To force a divorce, you’d gamble with our son’s life?” Julian asked, each word squeezed through clenched teeth. “I told you,” I said, unyielding. “Sign the papers, and the blood will be here.” Bystanders began to gather, their whispers turning into a chorus of judgment. “What is wrong with that woman? She’s so cruel.” “I know, right? Even a wolf won’t eat its own cub. Her husband was just trying to protect her, and she’s holding her own kid’s life for ransom.” The words washed over me, but I felt nothing. Julian’s chest heaved. “Fine, Evelyn. You’re ruthless. You win.” He let go of his mother, snatched the papers and pen from my hand, and scrawled his name across the signature line. Then he threw the agreement back at me, hitting me squarely in the chest. “Are you satisfied now? Can we save our son?” I picked up the papers from the floor, verified his signature, and tucked them into my purse. I turned to the nearest doctor. “You can prepare for surgery. The blood supply will be here shortly.” With that, I turned and walked away. Julian screamed after me, “Where are you going? You’re not going to stay for his surgery?” I didn’t look back. “Whether he lives or dies is no longer my concern.”

2 As I stepped out of the hospital’s main entrance, a car screeched to a halt in front of me. The passenger door flew open, and a woman in a white sundress scrambled out, her face a mask of worry. It was Rachel. She saw me and froze for a second before rushing over. “Evelyn, how’s Artie? Julian called me, he said there was an accident.” I looked at her—the woman who had lingered in the shadow of my marriage for a decade. “He’ll live.” I tossed the words at her and moved to walk away. But Rachel grabbed my wrist, her eyes welling with tears. “Evelyn, I know you’ve always misunderstood my relationship with Julian, but the child is what’s important right now. Please don’t be angry with him. He was just so worried about you.” Her voice was soft, but loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. An older woman passing by stopped to scold me. “What kind of wife are you? This young lady is trying to talk sense into you, and you’re just standing there with that sour face! Have you no conscience, abandoning your own son?” Rachel quickly intervened. “Ma’am, please don’t say that. Evelyn is just exhausted.” The more “reasonable” she acted, the more monstrous I appeared. I ripped my hand from her grasp. “Don’t touch me.” Rachel stumbled back, a tear rolling down her cheek. “I’m sorry, Evelyn, I didn’t mean to.” Just then, Julian came running out of the hospital. Seeing the scene, he immediately rushed to Rachel’s side, shielding her behind him. He glared at me, his face a thundercloud. “Evelyn! Have you not caused enough trouble? Rachel came here out of the goodness of her heart, and you attack her?” His mother followed, her eyes landing on Rachel as if she were a savior. She grabbed Rachel’s hands. “Oh, you dear girl, you’re finally here! You have to go see Artie. That witch has abandoned him. We only have you now!” Rachel soothed Julian’s mother while telling him, “Julian, don’t blame Evelyn. This must be a terrible shock for her.” The three of them stood there, a perfect picture of a loving, concerned family. And I was the wicked outsider. Looking at them, I felt my ten-year marriage crumble into a bitter joke. I didn’t say another word. I hailed a cab and left. As the car pulled away, I could see Julian holding Rachel in his arms in the rearview mirror, his mother dabbing her eyes beside them. Back at the apartment—my apartment, bought before the marriage and solely in my name—I started packing my things. For ten years, I had poured my soul into making this place a home, but now I realized it held not a single ounce of warmth for me. That evening, my mother called. The moment I answered, a torrent of accusations hit me. “Evelyn! Have you lost your mind? Artie is in a horrific accident, and you’re at the hospital fighting with his father over a divorce? You’ve brought nothing but shame on me and your father!” “Mom, I—” “Don’t you call me Mom! I don’t have a heartless daughter like you!” Her voice was shrill. “Julian told me everything. He didn’t want you to give blood because he was worried about you! You hemorrhaged so badly when you had Artie, your health has been fragile ever since. How can you be so ungrateful!” I stood there, phone in hand, unable to speak. “Now you get yourself back to that hospital immediately! Apologize to Julian and go see Artie! If you still consider me your mother, you will go now!” She hung up. I stared at the black screen, a cold hand squeezing my heart. It was true. I almost died giving birth to Artie. But no one in that family ever knew why I had bled so much.

3 I didn’t go back to the hospital. The next day, Julian showed up at my apartment with my parents in tow. The moment I opened the door, my father’s hand struck my face. “You animal! You dare show your face here!” he roared, his finger shaking with fury. “Artie had a raging fever last night, calling for his mommy over and over. Where were you? Is your heart made of stone?” My mother held onto my father, tears streaming down her face. “Evelyn, please, come to the hospital with us. The child is innocent. Whatever problems you have with Julian, you can’t take it out on your son.” Julian stood behind them, his expression one of profound pain. “Honey, I know I was wrong. I never should have called Rachel. Please, come back with me. Artie can’t lose you.” His performance was so convincing, even my parents were completely taken in. I touched my stinging cheek and looked at the three of them. “Are you finished?” My father stared. “What kind of attitude is that?” “If you’re finished, then get out. I need to rest.” I pointed to the door. “You!” He raised his hand to strike me again, but my mother desperately held him back. Julian stepped in front of me. “Uncle, please don’t be angry. It’s all my fault. I’m the one who mishandled things and upset Evelyn.” He turned to me, his eyes red-rimmed. “Honey, hit me, scream at me, do whatever you want. Just don’t abandon me and our son. After all these years together, how can you just throw it all away?” He reached for my hand, but I stepped back, avoiding his touch. “Julian, stop acting. Aren’t you tired?” His face went stiff for a fraction of a second before being consumed by an even greater sorrow. “Evelyn, how did you become like this? This isn’t you. You used to love Artie so much. You would have done anything to give him the world.” “Yes,” I nodded. “I used to be quite the fool.” My parents, seeing my impenetrable resolve, finally gave up. “Evelyn,” my mother said through her tears, “if you insist on this divorce, then don’t you ever step foot in our house again. We’ll act as if we never had a daughter.” My father pointed at Julian. “From now on, Julian is our son!” I looked at them, the last flicker of warmth in my heart extinguishing. “Fine.” That single word left my parents and Julian stunned. They must have thought threatening me with family ties would make me yield, just as it had every other time for the past decade. They were wrong. After they left, I got a call from my lawyer. “Ms. Hayes, Mr. Thorne has been served with the court summons. However, he’s leaked a story to the press. He’s claiming you’ve been mistreating your son, and that due to a marital dispute, you refused to provide a life-saving transfusion, leaving the boy in critical condition.” I opened my phone. The news was everywhere. “The Ice-Cold Heiress: Why She Let Her Own Son Suffer.” “‘Mommy Doesn’t Want Me Anymore,’ Cries 8-Year-Old Crash Victim.” The comments were a firestorm of hatred. My photo, my workplace, even my home address had been doxxed. A crowd of self-proclaimed “justice warriors” was already gathered outside my office building, holding signs demanding I be fired. Soon after, my boss called and told me to take an indefinite leave of absence. In the afternoon, Rachel called me. Her voice was a soft, innocent whisper. “Evelyn, please don’t blame Julian. You pushed him to this.” “Artie isn’t doing well. He needs his mother. Could you please… just come see him?” “In what capacity are you calling me?” I asked. A few seconds of silence. “I… I’m Artie’s aunt. And your friend.” “Friend?” I laughed out loud. “Rachel, you don’t even deserve the word.” I hung up. A moment later, my phone buzzed. It was a picture from Rachel. In the photo, Artie was lying in his hospital bed. Rachel was leaning over him, gently wiping his face with a cloth. Julian and his mother stood beside them, their faces glowing with adoration as they watched. The scene was sickeningly perfect. Beneath the photo was a single line of text. “Evelyn, we’re all waiting for you to come home.”

4 The day of the hearing, the courtroom was packed. Reporters, social justice advocates, and a host of my so-called friends and relatives were all there to witness my downfall. Julian arrived with Artie and Rachel. Artie was in a wheelchair, pale and fragile, his arm in a cast. The moment he saw me, his eyes filled with tears. “Mommy, please don’t divorce Daddy. It’s all my fault. I promise I won’t ever get sick again.” His pathetic cries elicited a wave of sympathy from the gallery. Julian’s mother was putting on her own show, wailing and pointing at me. “You’re a curse! A curse on our family! What did we ever do to deserve you?” Julian held Artie, playing the part of the tragic hero. “Evelyn, after all this, are you still going to be so stubborn? Are you really willing to destroy your son’s future for your own selfish pride?” Rachel stood by his side, ready with a tissue, whispering words of comfort. I watched their performance, my face an emotionless slate. Julian’s lawyer stood and began to list my “crimes.” From forgetting to buy Julian an anniversary gift, to not personally cooking for my mother-in-law’s birthday, all the way to my “refusal to save” Artie after the accident. Every detail was crafted to paint me as a selfish, cold-hearted, and unreasonable monster. Finally, the lawyer presented a medical report. “Your Honor, my client’s son, Arthur Thorne, suffered from cerebral hypoxia due to the defendant’s deliberate delay. He may suffer from permanent neurological damage as a result.” “Furthermore, the defendant has engaged in long-term emotional abuse, causing the child severe psychological trauma. We petition the court to grant full custody to Mr. Thorne and demand the defendant pay one million dollars in damages for emotional distress.” The judge looked at me, his eyes filled with disapproval. “Defendant, do you have anything to say in response to these allegations?” Every eye in the room was on me, waiting to see how I would squirm my way out of this. I rose to my feet. I didn’t look at Julian. I looked at the witness stand, directly at Rachel. “I have a question for Ms. Rachel Miller.”