I Worked Abroad for 6 Months, But When I Returned, My Wife’s Belly Was Flat and Two Babies Cried in My House
Episode 1

When I left Nigeria for Dubai, it was supposed to be just six months of hard work and sacrifice. My wife, Lydia, stood at the airport waving with tears in her eyes, promising she would wait for me no matter what. We didn’t have children yet, but we prayed every night before I travelled, hoping God would bless us soon.

Those six months were tough. I worked two jobs—construction during the day, delivery at night. I sent money home every week, called her often, and every time she picked up, she sounded cheerful. “I’m fine, baby,” she’d say. “Don’t worry about me.”

Until the fourth month, when her calls grew shorter. Sometimes she didn’t even pick up. I thought maybe she was just busy or tired, but deep down, something didn’t feel right. Still, I trusted her—after all, Lydia was the kindest woman I knew.

When my visa ended, I came home unannounced. I wanted to surprise her. The night flight landed, and by dawn, I was already at our gate, suitcase in hand and excitement in my heart. But the moment I opened the door, I froze.

I heard crying. Not one, but two babies crying. My heart skipped. My first thought was—maybe a neighbor came visiting. But then I saw her. My wife—holding two babies in her arms, rocking them gently. Her belly was flat, her hair messy, her face pale.

She looked up, and the color drained from her face. “D–David…” she stammered.

I dropped my bag. “Whose children are these?”

Her lips trembled. “It’s not what you think…”

I took a step closer, staring at the babies—they looked barely a few months old. “Lydia, I was gone for only six months. Six months! How did you have two children in that time?”

She burst into tears, trying to speak, but her voice broke. “Please… just sit down, I’ll explain everything.”

But I couldn’t. My chest tightened. Everything in me screamed that something dark was hiding behind her tears. Then I noticed something stranger—the babies had a faint birthmark on their wrists, shaped like tiny crescent moons. I’d seen that mark before—on Lydia’s wrist too.

A chill ran down my spine. “Lydia,” I whispered, “where did these babies come from?”

She looked at me with red eyes and said words that froze me to the bone:

“They’re not from this world, David… and I didn’t give birth to them.”

My suitcase dropped. The babies stopped crying at once. And both turned their tiny heads—to look straight at me.

I Worked Abroad for 6 Months, But When I Returned, My Wife’s Belly Was Flat and Two Babies Cried in My House
Episode 2

When I finally woke up the next morning, the house was unusually quiet — too quiet for a home that had once been filled with laughter, arguments, and morning chaos. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting long stripes of gold across the tiled floor. I could hear faint giggles coming from the dining area. The kids were eating breakfast, their small spoons clinking against the bowls of cereal, while my wife, Amina, stood in the kitchen humming softly as she washed the dishes. To anyone else, it would have seemed like a perfect morning — but to me, it felt like the calm before a storm I couldn’t see but could sense in my bones.

I sat there, pretending to scroll through my phone, but my eyes never left those children. Their faces. Their movements. Their smiles. Everything about them gnawed at something deep inside me. The older one — supposedly born barely five months after I left — looked far too grown. His eyes had a sharpness that didn’t belong to a toddler. The younger one, though smaller, had a strange resemblance to someone I couldn’t quite place — not me, not Amina. Every time I tried to shake off the thought, it came back stronger, whispering that something about all of this didn’t make sense.

I remembered the day I left Nigeria — how Amina had cried so much at the airport, holding my hand like she would never let go. We had prayed together, made promises, and dreamt of a future with children. Just six months, that’s all I was gone. Six months working abroad, breaking my back so we could live comfortably. And yet when I came back, my wife had two babies in her arms and a story that didn’t add up. She said she got pregnant soon after I left — but even the months didn’t line up. I wanted to believe her. God knows I wanted to. But every day since I returned, something inside me kept whispering that the truth was hiding behind her smile.

That evening, Amina said she was stepping out to get some groceries. I watched her walk out, her scarf blowing in the wind, her phone clutched tight to her chest. The moment she left, my heart began racing. My conscience screamed that what I was about to do was wrong, but suspicion had already taken over love. I went to the children’s room. The air there was thick with baby powder and innocence. I picked up a small comb she often used on their hair. With trembling hands, I plucked out a few strands and wrapped them carefully in a white handkerchief. My heart pounded as I hid it in my jacket pocket. I didn’t want to believe I was doing this — that I had become the kind of man who tested his own family. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. The sound of my own breathing felt loud, and guilt lay heavy on my chest.

The next morning, I went straight to the DNA center. The nurse there smiled politely, not knowing my world was hanging by a thread. I filled the forms, submitted the samples, and left. Days turned into weeks. The wait was torture. I found myself studying every little gesture, every little word Amina said. Every smile she gave me felt rehearsed. Every time she touched my shoulder, I flinched inside.

She began to notice. “You’ve changed,” she would say softly, touching my face. “What’s wrong with you lately?”

I would force a smile, the kind that never reached my eyes. “Nothing,” I’d whisper. But inside, I was drowning in doubt. Each night, I lay awake beside her, wondering if I was living with the woman I loved or the stranger who had destroyed me.

Then one evening, I got a call from the lab. The results were ready. My hands trembled so hard I could barely hold the envelope. My heart raced as I sat on the couch, staring at it, afraid to open it yet desperate to know. After what felt like hours, I tore it open — and everything inside me died in that instant. Both children — not mine.

The room started spinning. My breath caught in my throat. I felt like I was sinking into the floor. The world blurred around me as I stared at those cruel, merciless words. “Probability of paternity: 0.00%.”

I don’t remember how long I sat there, frozen, the paper shaking in my hands. When I finally walked out of the room, Amina was sitting on the couch, scrolling through her phone, smiling softly like nothing had changed. But everything had.

“Amina,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She looked up, smiling. “Yes, honey?”

I swallowed hard. “Who are these children?”

Her smile faltered. “W-what do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb,” I said, slamming the paper on the table. My voice cracked with rage and heartbreak. “WHO’S THEIR FATHER, AMINA?!”

Her lips trembled. Tears filled her eyes, but she said nothing. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. “Tell me the truth!” I roared, stepping closer.

Finally, she dropped to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m sorry,” she cried. “I didn’t mean for it to happen!”

I clenched my fists, shaking. “Happen? Happen with WHO?”

And then she said it. The words that shattered everything.

“They’re your brother’s children.”

My knees gave out. I stared at her in disbelief. “What… did you just say?”

She covered her face, crying harder. “It was a mistake… he was there for me when you left, and I was lonely, and—”

I didn’t let her finish. My ears rang with fury. My heart was breaking and burning at the same time. That night, I drove straight to my brother’s house. When he opened the door, guilt flashed across his face like lightning.

“It just happened,” he said before I could even speak. “I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

The next thing I knew, my fist connected with his face. Then another. He didn’t fight back. He just stood there, crying, blood trickling from his nose. “I’m sorry,” he kept repeating, “I’m so sorry.” But there are wounds that apologies can never touch.

When I returned home, Amina was gone. Her clothes, the kids, everything — vanished. Not a single trace left behind. I thought that was the end. I thought maybe she had run off to hide from shame. But that night, I learned the truth.

At exactly 2:17 a.m., I heard it — faint giggles echoing through the hallway. Children’s laughter. I froze. Slowly, I turned toward the door, my heart pounding like a drum. The sound grew louder, closer. I grabbed a flashlight and stepped outside, whispering their names, but the corridor was empty.

The next morning, my neighbor, Mrs. Grace, knocked on my door looking terrified. “David,” she said, her voice shaking, “I saw Amina last night. She was standing out in the rain with the children. Barefoot. Just staring at your house.”

My blood ran cold. “That’s not possible,” I said. “She’s gone.”

But Mrs. Grace nodded. “I know what I saw.”

I ran outside, into the mud and rain. But there were no footprints. No signs of anyone. Just silence and the faint smell of baby powder on the wind.

Now, every night, I hear the same laughter echoing faintly through the walls. Sometimes I hear Amina’s voice whispering my name. Sometimes I wake to find small wet footprints near the bed — two sets.

I don’t know if it’s guilt haunting me… or something much darker. But one thing I know for sure — when love is betrayed, it doesn’t die quietly. It comes back. And sometimes, it brings the children you never had.