18/09/2025
The day I took my wife to the delivery room, I ran into her ex-boyfriend, who was also accompanying his pregnant wife... and both babies were born with a strangely similar characteristic. I never liked the number six. Not from superstition, but because when I was little, a thin scar sat near my left wrist. My mother once told me I was born with six fingers. At three, surgeons removed the extra one, and the scar faded into memory. I had forgotten about it until that night in Texas. Rain pounded the hospital roof as I rushed Emily, my wife, clutching her belly. The elevator failed during a lightning storm, so I carried her up six flights, my arms burning with every step. The obstetrics ward smelled of iodine and rain. Nurses hurried us in; Ly disappeared into Delivery Room 5. As I buttoned the blue gown they gave me, I froze. A familiar face sat nearby. “Steven?” “John?” It was Emily’s old lover, John, with his wife Julia, also in labor—Room 7. The past and present collided under the storm. We sat on opposite benches, drinking lotus tea in silence, fathers waiting in fear. Then the lights went out, leaving only the red emergency lamp. When the generator sputtered back to life, cries burst from Room 5—my son was born. Minutes later, a baby’s wail came from Room 7. When I first saw my boy through the glass, I nearly collapsed. His left hand bore an extra finger, pale and delicate as a petal. The nurse assured me it was common, easy to fix. But when she lifted another newborn—John’s daughter—the same anomaly marked her hand. Something tightened in my chest. Was this coincidence? Or destiny mocking me? In the nursery, after going through the long handwashing process, I saw my son in an incubator. Small, red-skinned, asleep, his fists clenched. As I watched him, I froze—because I noticed that the two babies... looked too much alike. Full story in 1st comment👇
