The morning sun shines through therge windows of the dining room as we all gather for breakfast. Miles is feeling much


    better, and thankfully, his fever waspletely gone when I checked on him this morning. He''s currently perched on my mother''sp, happily devouring a stack of chocte chip pancakes that the cook made especially for him.


    It seems as though Miles'' brief bout of food poisoningst night-likely from the sandwich Arthur and I picked up for him on the


    way to the airport-has left him ravenous.


    "Slow down, sweetie," Iugh from across the table. "The pancakes aren''t going anywhere."


    Miles ignores mepletely, too busy stuffing his face and basking in the attention my mother isvishing on him. She seems


    mouth.


    The sight nearly makes me burst into tears.


    Is this what I missed growing up? A mother who would cut my food and clean my face? Who would look at me with such


    adoration?


    It''s not just about me, though. I don''t even care at this point that I didn''t get to have this as a child. I''m just d to see Miles


    being doted on by grandparents who love him -a dream that I''ve had for him since the moment I held him in my arms for the


    first time.


    "He''s got quite the appetite," my fatherments with a chuckle. "Just like someone else I know." He nces at Arthur, who is


    currently on his third helping of eggs and bacon.


    Arthur smiles around a mouthful of bacon. "What can I say? Goes right to the muscles."


    "True enough," my father agrees, pouring himself more coffee. "I remember when I was your age, I could eat an entire roast by


    myself after a good run."


    "You still can," my mother quips without looking up from helping Miles with his juice. "I''ve seen you do it."


    We allugh, and I find myself marveling at how... normal this all feels. Sitting around a table with my family-my real, biological family-sharing breakfast and jokes. It''s something I never thought I''d experience, something I''d long ago given up dreaming


    about.


    I want to savor it until the end of my days.


    Suddenly, the dining room door opens, and an elderly woman enters. I do a double take when I see her; it''s the same woman fromst night, the one who stared at me so strangely in the courtyard before hurrying away.


    She''s dressed more formally now, in a neat gray dress with a white cor, her silver hair pulled back in a tight bun at the nape of


    her neck. She stops in the doorway, hands folded neatly in front of her.


    "Ah, Nora," my mother says warmly. "Come join us."


    The woman hesitates, her eyes flicking to me briefly before she approaches the table.


    "Iris, this is Nora," my mother exins. "She''s been with our family for many years. She''s the family nanny."


    My eyebrows shoot up in surprise.


    +25 Bonus


    "Nora has been a trusted advisor and friend to our family for decades," my father adds. "She helped raise both Caleb and... well, Selina."


    His voice trails off meaningfully, and for a moment, the table goes quiet as the implication sinks in. If I hadn''t been switched at birth, Nora would have been my nanny. Not Selina''s.


    I can''t even believe that I would have had a nanny. At the orphanage, if the headmistress was busy-which she often was-it was usually the older children who cared for the younger ones.


    My mother smiles and breaks the tension. "Nora actually helped deliver you, Iris. She held my hand the whole time and practically pushed the nurses out of the way to get to you when you finally popped out after a grueling eighteen hours ofbor."


    I look at Nora in surprise, who nods her head politely. I almost want to ask if she had any idea that I was swapped, but I doubt it. No one knew. It''s just one of those things that happens sometimes; maternity wards get crowded. Mistakes happen.