People panic. People change. Maybe the first time had just been shock.
But a year later, she was back.
And then again the year after that.
And again.
Seven times in nine years.
Seven babies.
Seven rejections.
Each time, the pattern never changed. I would deliver the child. I would cradle them for a moment, hoping—praying—for something to shift in Lillian’s eyes.
But there was always that same emptiness. That same quiet withdrawal.
Her husband, always calm, always detached, would say the same words:
“We’ll keep trying until we get a normal one.”
The first few times, I tried to talk to her.
“These children can live full lives,” I told her once. “They need love more than anything.”
She didn’t argue.
She just… didn’t respond.
By the seventh child, I stopped trying.
Because something inside me had started to break.
After that, they disappeared.
No more hospital visits. No records. No explanations.
It was as if they had simply vanished from the world.
Life went on, as it always does. New mothers came in, crying tears of joy. New babies filled the ward with their first fragile breaths. But every now and then, I would think of those seven children.
Where were they?
Were they together? Alone? Loved?
Or forgotten?
Years passed.
Then one morning, everything changed.
I was in the staff room, sipping coffee, scrolling through the news on my phone when a headline caught my eye:
“Renowned Doctor Adopts Seven Special-Needs Children in Secret Over Nine Years”
My heart skipped.
Seven?
I opened the article, my fingers suddenly unsteady.
And then I saw his name.
Dr. Jonathan Hale.
Our principal doctor.
The head of the entire medical department.
The man everyone feared.
He was known for his strictness. His silence. His cold, unwavering standards. Nurses straightened when he walked by. Interns avoided eye contact. Even senior staff spoke to him carefully, measuring every word.
He was brilliant.
But warm?
Never.
At least, that’s what we all thought.
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