Patricia and I had been born on the same day, in the same hospital, just minutes apart. A flurry of nurses, two newborn girls crying, a power outage that knocked out the identification tags. In the chaos, one frightened nurse made a mistake she’d carry for decades—and never had the courage to fix. She swapped the babies. Me and Patricia. One simple, tragic mix-up.
Patricia went home with the Monteras—an elite, old-money family known for their legacy, their wealth, their name. I, Alicia, the real daughter of Montera Group’s heir, went home with a working-class couple in the city outskirts, a quiet, simple life full of secondhand shoes, hard work, and honest love.
I never knew the difference. Not until the nurse, wracked with guilt and dying of illness, finally confessed. She called the Monteras and told them everything. Tests were done. Blood types checked. Legal papers pulled.
It was true. I was the real Montera daughter.
And Patricia… was not. But by then, it was too late.