The air outside the delivery room was thick with tension, silent except for the soft hum of anticipation. I sat beside Jake, my sister’s husband, our knees nearly brushing yet feeling miles apart. His hands moved constantly—rubbing, twitching—as though trying to rub away the growing unease between us.
I tried to lighten the mood with a comment about the absence of screams meaning everything must be fine, but he didn’t respond. No smile, no acknowledgment. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, as if it held some answers.
When the nurse finally opened the door, she didn’t speak. We simply stood, moved into the room like we were wading through water. Everything inside was stark and sterile—white sheets, white walls, harsh lights—except for the small pink bundle cradled in Emily’s arms.
Emily looked exhausted, her face pale and lips dry, but her eyes sparkled with life. She was smiling, though tired, the smile genuine.
I moved closer, my heart softening as I gazed at the newborn wriggling in her embrace.
“He’s beautiful,” I murmured.
Emily nodded slowly. “His name is Martin.”
The words hit me like a sudden shock, sharp and hard to comprehend.
“You mean…?” I started, unsure.
“Yes,” she said, calm and too composed.
I forced a smile, but something in her eyes unsettled me. “You know my son is named Martin.”
Emily shrugged. “It’s not like you own the name.”
I tried to brush it off, told myself it wasn’t a big deal. But the feeling clung to me, nagging like a splinter under the skin.
Weeks passed, and we exchanged baby photos, short texts here and there. I attributed the distance to the exhaustion of new motherhood. But there was an undercurrent, something unspoken but clearly simmering beneath our interactions.
Then, one night, Emily called with the news that Mom had passed away.
“She passed in her sleep,” Emily’s voice was quiet. “The nurse said it was peaceful.”
The next morning, I drove to the house, grief settling heavily in my chest. The house smelled unchanged—cedarwood and old memories—but the atmosphere felt empty, the joy having left with Mom.
Mr. Howard, the attorney, met us at the kitchen table. Emily and I sat across from each other, stiff and silent. His voice was soft as he began reading the will—the jewelry, the savings, split equally between us.
And then came the shock.
“The house goes to her grandson, Martin.”
My breath caught. Relief flooded my chest. Mom had always said she wanted the house to stay in the family, passed down to her first grandchild—my Martin.
But Emily’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Which Martin?”
The room froze.
“There are two Martins now,” Emily said, her tone too calm.
I tried to stay composed. “She meant my son,” I replied. “He was here first. She helped raise him.”
“She lived with me in her final months,” Emily countered.
Mr. Howard frowned. “The will doesn’t specify, it just says ‘to my grandson, Martin.’”
And then, it clicked. Everything made sense—why she’d chosen that name, why she had looked at me like that in the hospital. She had known. She had planned it all.
“You named him Martin for the inheritance,” I said, the words stinging as I spoke them.
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“She never even held your baby, Em,” I snapped. “You used the name as a weapon.”
The conversation ended in a tense silence, but I couldn’t leave it there. That night, I went through Mom’s belongings—her desk, her papers, anything that could give me a clue. And that’s when I found it—an old sticky note, a simple grocery list, with handwriting so familiar. It was hers. But something wasn’t right.
I compared it to the will. The loops in the handwriting were different. The angle, the ink—it was off.
Someone had tampered with it.
The next morning, I showed it to Mr. Howard. He conducted a forensic check, and within days, the truth came out. The name had been altered. The will had been forged.
When confronted, Emily didn’t deny it. Her face was tight, full of bitterness. “You always got everything. I just wanted one thing.”
“But you took it by lying,” I replied.
“I named my son after yours,” she said, her voice raw. “Do you know how humiliating that was? But I did it anyway, hoping it would finally mean something.”
In that moment, it wasn’t anger I felt, but sorrow. Sorrow for the sister who used to be my best friend, and for the trust that could never be repaired.
She left without another word.
I stayed behind, holding Mom’s old coffee cup, staring at the faint ring it had left on the table.
“I’ll make it right, Mom,” I whispered, my voice barely above a breath. “I’ll take care of both Martins—even if one was born of spite.”