The day I was told I’d never be able to have a child, my world came crashing down. My husband says he still loves me, but I lie awake at night, wishing we could have a family. One morning, my husband’s side of the bed is cold and empty. I hear a noise and head downstairs. In the middle of the rug in my living room is a wooden drawer. Swaddled inside, with perfect rosy cheeks and beautiful round blue eyes, a baby gazes up at me.

I take a sip of coffee as I plan my day. My surgeon husband, Cole, slept at work last night, so I had to get the kids ready on my own, again. I can’t complain, though, I’ve loved him ever since we met, long before he became a famous surgeon and the papers started calling him the pride of the hospital. Our latest family photo hangs on the kitchen wall and I remember that day so clearly. Cole screamed at me over nothing, then apologised saying he was stressed at work. My heart pounded with fear, but I plastered a smile on my face for the sake of my children.

In the glow of their children’s exciting first year of college at a small private school in Northern California, five families plan on a night of dinner and cocktails for the opening festivities of Parents Weekend. As the parents stay out way past their bedtimes, their kids—five residents of Campisi Hall—never show up at dinner.

ME: Staring down at the sweet baby in my arms, I feel panic instead of love. Because this isn’t the child I gave birth to. My husband whispers to the midwife. They all think I’m going crazy. But the tiny boy in my arms is crying again. I’m certain: he knows I’m not his mummy. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get my son back.

This is the day my life changes forever. It started so normally. The alarm went at 7am. My husband made bacon and pancakes for me and our seven-year-old daughter, the kitchen full of chatter and laughter. He gave me a quick kiss, told me he loved me, grabbed his wallet, and rushed off to work. Just an ordinary day. Until I get the call from the school. It was Tom’s turn to pick up our daughter. He must be held up for some reason. I find Tom’s phone under our bed. Now I know there’s something seriously wrong. I scroll through his messages. A text sent late last night: I KNOW EVERYTHING.