During my pregnancy check-up, the doctor—wearing a clean, crisp coat but looking pale and worried—suddenly asked, “Who was your previous doctor?”…
I answered, “My husband, because he’s also a gynecologist.”
The doctor immediately looked troubled and said, “We need to run some tests right now!”
The exam room smelled of sanitizer, and a heavy silence hung in the air. I had been waiting for this appointment for weeks, confident that my pregnancy was progressing normally. But the moment the new doctor entered the room, something felt off. His coat was clean and perfectly pressed, but his face… pale, tense, and unsettling.
“All right,” he said without looking directly at me. “We’ll review your previous ultrasound report and then do a new examination.”
Feeling uneasy, I nodded.
My regular gynecologist—my husband, Dr. Arvind Mehra—was currently abroad at a medical conference. He was always with me or conducting my check-ups himself, but this time, I found myself with a doctor who seemed more worried than I was.
During the ultrasound, the silence grew heavier. The doctor moved the transducer slowly, very slowly, like he was searching for something he didn’t want to find. His eyes narrowed, his breathing changed. I tried to read his expression, but he said nothing.
Finally, he removed the device and stood, staring at the screen. His voice emerged almost as a whisper:
“Who… who was your previous doctor?”
The question shocked me. Why did it matter now? Still, I answered normally:
“My husband. He’s also a gynecologist.”
The doctor’s eyes widened. His reaction was strange and frightening. He stepped back, as if he had just made a grave mistake. He took a deep breath and whispered:
“We need to run some tests immediately… something isn’t right. If your husband is a gynecologist, he should have seen this already…”
He shut the folder abruptly. “Please wait here. Don’t move.”
And he hurried out of the room.
Left alone, I didn’t know whether I should be worried about my baby, my husband, or the doctor’s bizarre reaction. I looked at the ultrasound screen, trying to find anything unusual, but I didn’t know what to look for. A knot formed in my throat, and a strange thought struck me: What did he see that my husband never mentioned?
The hallway outside buzzed with activity—footsteps, phone calls, nurses and doctors speaking hurriedly. All this… over a simple question.
As I waited, my hands cold and my heart racing, I realized this moment was opening the door to something much bigger—something that extended far beyond my pregnancy, into secrets I had never imagined existed.
When the doctor returned, he brought a woman with him—clearly the department head or a senior supervisor. Both entered the room with a seriousness that hinted they were about to deliver life-altering news.
They gave me a professional but cold smile.
“Mrs. Mehra,” the woman began, “we need to review a few details of your medical history. Don’t worry; it’s a routine procedure.”
I knew it was a lie. Nothing about this was routine.
Dr. Jyoti Kapoor sat across from me while the male doctor remained standing, visibly uneasy. She opened the same folder he had shut minutes earlier and turned it toward me.
“According to the previous ultrasound report from three weeks ago…” She paused. “Was it done at your husband’s private clinic?”
I nodded.
“All right. The problem is this,” she continued. “This report and the accompanying image do not match what we saw today.”
My stomach tightened.
“In what way?”
Dr. Jyoti clasped her hands.
“Today’s ultrasound shows a pregnancy around 22 weeks. But the previous report says 25 weeks. That, Mrs. Mehra, is impossible. Pregnancy doesn’t go backwards.”
My breath caught as I tried to process the impossible.
“Maybe it’s just a mistake…” I stammered.
“That’s not all,” Dr. Jyoti said, cutting me off. “Today’s ultrasound shows a different fetal position, and certain physical markers don’t match the previous one. And the doctor”—she glanced at the man, who still looked tense—“found indications that you may have had two different pregnancies.”
A wave of confusion and fear washed over me.
“That’s absurd,” I stammered. “I’ve never lost a pregnancy. Never… nothing. Everything has been normal.”
Dr. Jyoti watched me silently for a few seconds, as if analyzing my reaction.
“Mrs. Mehra, we need to know whether your husband treated any complications without informing us. Was there any bleeding? Any procedure? Severe pain at any time?”
I shook my head, growing more disturbed.
The male doctor finally spoke.
“There’s something else. The fetus we saw today… is perfectly healthy and alive. But the measurements in the previous ultrasound indicate severe developmental delay. These two fetuses are not the same.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“Are you saying that… I’m not the mother of the baby in the…?”
“We are saying,” Dr. Jyoti said firmly, “that there are discrepancies that must be explained. And if your husband performed the previous ultrasound, we need to contact him immediately.”
Images of my husband flashed through my mind—his calm smile, steady hands, long nights reviewing reports. It was hard to believe he could be involved in something strange. But the doctors’ seriousness told me there was more—much more—they had yet to reveal.
Then gently, Dr. Jyoti added,
“There are legal protocols when discrepancies in fetal identity arise. We need to conduct tests right away. And we need to speak to your husband… before anyone else contacts him.”
My heart pounded.
“Anyone else”?
Who else could be looking for him?
They led me to a private room, gave me water, asked me to sit. But I couldn’t stay still.
“I want to call my husband,” I said, pulling out my phone.
“We’ve already tried,” Dr. Jyoti replied calmly. “But his phone is switched off. According to the conference organizers, he left the hotel two days ago and didn’t return.”
The ground seemed to vanish beneath me.
“That’s impossible… he was supposed to return yesterday.”
“We know,” she said. “That’s why we need your cooperation.”
The male doctor opened a manila envelope and placed several printed reports on the table—reports signed by my husband. But something was wrong: the dates didn’t match, some reports were duplicated, others had handwritten alterations.
“Your husband modified several records,” Dr. Jyoti said. “We don’t yet know why, but one document describes an emergency procedure that appears nowhere else.”
I froze.
“A procedure? What kind?”
The male doctor exhaled slowly.
“A procedure performed when there is suspicion of an early miscarriage… but no miscarriage was ever reported in your case.”
The words hit me like a blow.
I remembered one night months ago—waking with severe pain, my husband soothing me, giving me a painkiller, saying it was just pregnancy stress. I had trusted him completely.
Now doubt was tearing me apart.
“Are you saying… I lost a pregnancy without knowing?”
Dr. Jyoti gently shook her head.
“We cannot say that for certain. But your husband wrote a note stating that ‘the patient cannot be informed of the actual pregnancy status until hormonal stabilization is complete.’ That has no valid medical justification.”
Hot tears filled my eyes.
“I don’t understand… why would he do that?”
Dr. Jyoti looked at me with a mix of sympathy and caution.
“Mrs. Mehra… we need to ask you something sensitive. Is it possible your husband was protecting you from something? Or from someone?”
“Who are you talking about?”
The male doctor displayed today’s ultrasound image on the large screen. Then he showed the previous one. I couldn’t grasp the technical details, but even without medical training, it was obvious the two images weren’t from the same fetus or the same timeframe.
Dr. Jyoti cleared her throat.
“There’s a clear difference: a mark on the femur. A small detail, but identifiable.”
“And…?”
“Such marks,” she continued, “are seen when certain hormonal drugs or substances are administered during pregnancy. But you have no prescription for such medications.”
My mind froze.
Then suddenly, a memory: my husband insisting I take “special supplements.” I never questioned him.
Dr. Jyoti seemed to read my expression.
“We’re trying to determine,” she said, “whether your husband manipulated aspects of the pregnancy to hide a complication… or to conceal that the pregnancy you lost and the pregnancy you have now did not occur at the same time.”
“Are you suggesting…?” My voice broke.
“We are suggesting that there may be a discrepancy in conception. And your husband knew.”
Cold silence filled the room.
Finally, Dr. Jyoti added,
“And until everything is clarified, we cannot rule out the possibility of fetal substitution. It may not have been intentional… but it may have been concealed.”
I couldn’t breathe.
A storm of emotions—fear, confusion, betrayal—crashed through me.
What had my husband done?
Why did he alter the records?
Why was he missing?
I looked at the ultrasound from today.
And I realized that even though my baby meant everything to me, I couldn’t move forward without knowing the whole truth.
“I’ll do the tests,” I finally said. “But you must tell me everything. Even if it hurts.”
The doctors nodded.
The door closed.
And I knew my life had just been divided into ‘before’ and ‘after’.