The baby quiets, whimpers, then screams. Milk leaks inside my nursing bra. I hurry back downstairs to the kitchen, absentmindedly fingering the irritated knot on my cheek. I drink a full glass of water, take a clotted breath, and calm my racing mind. Maybe I’m mistaken. Maybe something in those sleeping pills—paired with wine—is making me hallucinate. But every rational thought is clipped by the hard truth that this baby is not Jackson. I know it.

I slowly return to the nursery. My fingers skim the wall to help me stay upright. His unfamiliar cries nip my nerves. I rack my brain for other babies’ cries—the cries of my friends’ children, or random strangers at the park—but I don’t know this cry. I don’t know him. I slide the baby into my arms, his diaper heavy and hot, and a gut-wrenching realization overrides this screaming infant: Where the hell is my son?

I almost capsize. Could someone have purposefully swapped my child? Or is this some sort of mistake, my mistake? I could have grabbed the wrong stroller. I calculate that possibility, but know it’s not likely. I’m obsessive about identifying my own objects, especially his stroller. I also made sure of its precise location in relation to the others.

I retrace my steps back to the moments after I fell. Did I check Jackson thoroughly once I was awake? Hold him? Feed him?

No, I didn’t.

I shush the baby and bounce him, but he only cries harder. What do I do? My brain feels cloudy as I attempt to grasp next steps. Jess! She was with him the entire afternoon. She would know the difference between my baby and someone else’s.

I pat the baby’s back and wonder if he’s hungry. I walk to the kitchen and find a bottle of milk in the fridge. I thrust the plastic nipple into his mouth, and he sucks it all down in one greedy gulp.

While he’s placated, I place him back in the crib and call Jess. Her phone goes straight to voice mail. I try again. I then send a frantic text to call me immediately and pace the living room. I need to think, but my mind is jumbled, all of the pieces not fitting together just right. The panic threatens to render me useless.

The phone fractures my turmoil. I pick it up and issue a breathless hello.

“Everything okay?” Jess asks. In the background, a door shuts.

“This baby isn’t Jackson,” I hiss.

“What?” Her voice springs to full attention. “What do you mean?” She starts to speak again and then stops. “I’m confused.”

“When Jackson started crying tonight, he sounded different. It’s not him.”

“Whoa, back up. What? How in the world would that baby not be Jackson? I was with him all day.”