What Happened to My Son!

Without another word, my father threw a photo album down in front of me.

Because of their age, my parents were always worried something might happen to them. Every year, they made it a point to gather the whole family for a group photo, wanting to leave behind memories while they still could.

In the photos, I was holding Katie, smiling at her with unfiltered affection.

And it wasn’t just the family portraits.

My phone gallery had thousands of photos and videos of her—Katie as a newborn, eyes still shut tight, curled up like a tiny bean; her bright, watery eyes staring up at me while she drank her milk; the first time she called me “Daddy” in her soft, babbling baby voice; the time she got sick and I held her all night, crying silently with worry.

I scrolled through them all.

Every single image was Katie.

There wasn’t a single trace of my son.

“Ivan,” my father said, his voice heavy, “Katie’s always been the one closest to you. She adored you.”

“But ever since you started pushing her away, she’s been crying herself to sleep every night, thinking it’s all her fault. She thinks she did something wrong to make you stop loving her.”

“She’s such a good child. Even with how cold you’ve been, she’s never once blamed you. How can you keep breaking her heart like this?”

His eyes bore into me—full of both worry and reproach.

My mother sighed and added gently, “Ivan, you and Annalise are still young. If you really want a son, you can always have another child.”

“But why pretend you don’t know Katie? Why invent a son who never existed?”

Their words, full of sorrow and confusion, made something ache deep inside my chest.

I wasn’t someone who favored boys over girls.

But I just couldn’t accept this reality.

I remembered my son—vividly, tangibly. His voice, his smile, his very presence burned into my memory.

How could that all be fake?

I refused to keep talking and locked myself in the bedroom.

Inside the walk-in closet, aside from mine and Annalise’s clothes, were only little dresses—clearly a girl’s wardrobe.

Framed photos on the nightstand showed me and Annalise holding Katie, beaming like the happiest parents alive.

Even the walls were plastered with awards she had won at kindergarten.

Everything—every object, every memory—supported what everyone else believed.

That Katie was my only daughter.

That I had never had a son.

But I refused to believe it.

Every time I closed my eyes, all I could see was my son.

His cheerful voice, his bright eyes, the way he sat on my shoulders, gazing at the sky and declaring he was Superman.

Those moments—the joy, the laughter, the love—they felt so real.

How could they not be?

Like a madman, I turned the house upside down, searching every corner for any trace of him.

But there was nothing.

Not a single sign he had ever existed.

A heavy, suffocating unease settled over me.

Driven by instinctive fear, I went to the police station to report my son missing.

But after conducting an investigation, the officers simply gave me a helpless look.

“We’ve looked into everything. You only have a daughter. There’s no record of a son—none.”

In the end, with everyone accusing me of losing my mind, Annalise came to take me home.

Despite all the evidence, despite everyone’s insistence that Katie was my one and only child, I still couldn’t bring myself to love her.

I couldn’t respond when she called me “Daddy.” I pulled away whenever she got close.

Every time I saw her, I couldn’t stop thinking about him—my son, who existed only in my memories.

At first, Annalise tried to reason with me.

She begged me not to let this delusion damage our child and destroy our family.

But when my rejection of Katie only grew more intense, she had no choice but to bring in a psychologist.

Eventually, I was diagnosed with severe delusional disorder.