Two months later we were told: in our maternity hospital a baby swap had indeed occurred. Our real child had been mistakenly given to another family, and we were handed someone else’s boy.

The scariest thing was that such cases had already happened at this hospital. The management had tried to cover up the mistakes, but we found evidence.

I didn’t know how to go on. The son I loved with all my heart was not my blood. But he was still my child.

My husband needed time to come to terms with it.

And somewhere in this world our real child is living — and perhaps he too is growing up in a stranger’s family.