Chapter 9 – THE DAUGHTER IN THE UNIFORM

The hospital room felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked out of it.

I stood frozen against the wall.

The styrofoam cup of water I didn’t realize I was holding slipped from my fingers, splashing across the linoleum floor.

“Anna?” Evelyn whispered, her voice trembling so violently it barely made a sound.

Damian turned slowly to look at me. His eyes were wide, tracing the lines of my face, searching for the truth in the harsh hospital light.

“No,” I stammered, shaking my head. “No, that’s impossible. My parents are Thomas and Maria Mitchell. I grew up in Albany. My father is recovering on the fourth floor of this very hospital.”

Thomas groaned slightly as he pushed himself up against the pillows.

“Thomas and Maria Mitchell were good people,” he said softly. “They couldn’t have children. Frances found them. She paid off their mortgage and funded their business, on the condition they take the baby girl and never tell a soul where she came from.”

My chest heaved. I backed away, pressing my spine against the cold door.

“You’re lying,” I cried. “My parents love me!”

“They do,” Thomas agreed, tears streaming down his face. “They gave you a beautiful life, Anna. A life far away from the blood and the violence of the Vitelli family. Frances wanted you to be innocent. And you are.”

I looked at Evelyn.

She was staring at me, her hands hovering over her mouth.

I realized why I had felt such an intense, inexplicable pull to her when she knelt beside me on the marble floor to pick up those pearls. I realized why her voice had calmed the panic in my chest.

She wasn’t just a kind stranger.

I looked at Damian. The man I had served coffee to every morning for fifteen months. The man whose house I had cleaned.

He was my twin brother.

Damian took a slow, hesitant step toward me.

“Anna,” he said, his voice breaking.

“Don’t,” I choked out, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the lie my entire life was built on.

I turned around, threw open the hospital door, and ran.

I ran down the sterile corridors, past the nurses’ station, and slammed my hand against the elevator button.

I rode it up to the fourth floor. I sprinted into the VIP recovery suite.

My father—the man who raised me—was asleep in a comfortable bed, his breathing steady and strong.

I collapsed into the chair beside his bed, burying my face in the blankets, and sobbed.

I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was Anna Mitchell, the devoted daughter. But I was also Anna Vitelli, the discarded twin.

An hour passed in silence.

Then, I heard a soft footstep behind me.

I turned my head.

Evelyn stood in the doorway. She didn’t intrude. She didn’t rush toward me.

She simply stood there, looking at the man in the bed who had raised her daughter.

“He has kind eyes,” Evelyn whispered, noticing a photograph of us on the bedside table.

I wiped my face. “He gave up everything for me. He worked two jobs to put me through school.”

“I know,” Evelyn smiled sadly. “I used to watch you both from across the street at the park. Every Sunday when you were little.”

I froze. “You knew?”

Evelyn shook her head gently.

“I didn’t know you were mine, Anna. Thomas never told me. But I always felt drawn to you. I just thought I was admiring a happy family.”

She took one step into the room.

“I don’t want to replace him, Anna. I could never replace the man who held your hand when you were frightened.”

She reached into her pocket. She pulled out the tiny baby blanket with the blue embroidered letters. D.M.V.

But then, she unfolded the other side.

Sewn into the bottom corner in delicate pink thread were three more letters.

A.F.V.

Anna Frances Vitelli.

“I made this for both of you,” Evelyn whispered, tears falling freely. “I just want the chance to finally give it to you.”

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