They say that a mother will always recognize her own child, no matter if years or distance have separated them from each other. She will look into the eyes of the child she carried, birthed, and there will be nothing stronger than the love that tethered her baby first to her womb, then to her heart.

They say fathers do not have the same connection. I would have disagreed vehemently six years ago, when I first held my son and felt a wave of unadulterated love wash over me. I would have argued against the claim that a mother held more affection than a father due to her biology.

But now, I regret that I might agree. Because when I look at this writhing, miserable creature who bears my face but inspires no recognition in me, I do not feel the desire to reach out to him. Instead, it takes everything in me not to squeeze the bastard’s tiny neck and watch in satisfaction as the light drains from his eyes.

I remember the day my son was born. I thought I was prepared. But when my wife’s water broke, I fell into a useless, fretful fit that I thought was just a caricature of male foolishness. My wife had to calm me down before she was wheeled into the delivery room. I only followed after I felt confident I wouldn’t pass out on my feet. I barely felt the sterile gown, the hairnet, and the gloves the nurses put on me. Instead, I kept my eyes trained on my wife’s face. I kept an ear out for the piercing cry that would signal my son was here. My wife’s eyes were closed, and I prayed she would open them, even for a second, to tell me without words that she would be okay. I prayed my son would inherit her eyes—eyes filled with warmth and love.

And then that newborn wail came—defiant, strong, and a wonderful melody. It erased all anxiety in me. I stood to take him from the doctor. I remember being so happy seeing that little face scrunched up. His eyes were open. Without any doubt, I recognized my own eyes staring back. Pride filled my heart. I carried him to my wife, and together we stared at this whining little spark of life that held both our hearts in his fists.

After that, the years erased the memories. Or perhaps it wasn’t the years. Perhaps my lapse in memory came with the arrival of this sick child from the hospital. When I looked into the face of this boy, I saw only haunted eyes that hid nothing behind them.

Could it be that the pain of seeing a sick child altered my mind, erased memories, washed away the love? But it could not be. I would never have let my wife deal with such a tragedy alone. I could not even bear to imagine her alone in a hospital room, keeping vigil by a bed which held a body too small, too young.

But there was no heartbreak in me. No desperation that would make me kneel and scream to a God to take me instead of my sick child. There was only a gaping emptiness and a wondering sense of confusion. It's as if I was in one moment, celebrating a new chapter in my life, holding a baby boy who had my eyes. The next, I am in our house, but everything had changed. Corners were littered with a child's things. The nursery had been turned into a young boy's sanctuary. My wife was thinner, more weathered by a storm I did not recall arriving at all.

Even as my wife kissed me, glad that our son was home after so long in the hospital, I could not think of anything except that I didn’t want this thing in my home.

But I did not say all this. How could I? My wife was exhausted, even with the smile she wore on her face. She gladly toted the child around, pulling him into our son’s bedroom, shoving toys in his hands, and excitedly rambling a hundred words a minute. When I stepped into the child’s bedroom, I could only look around at the blue-painted walls and the mess of blankets and stuffed animals on the bed.

I did not remember spending time in this room, playing with a toddler or teaching him how to walk. I did not remember tending to a sick child before bringing him to the doctor. I searched every cavern of my heart for the joy of seeing my son's first steps or the ecstasy of hearing him say his first words. I came up with nothing.

When the thing—the child—grabbed a stuffed bear I remembered buying when my wife was six months pregnant, I was snapped out of my disorientation. I quickly leapt into action, snatching away the precious bear from the goblin’s tiny, wrinkled hands. I did not want the creature to soil the bear with its wretchedness.

My wife was on her feet in seconds. With an aggression I didn’t know I could possess, I quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the creature at our feet. In her haste, my wife tripped over the child, and it fell to the floor with a thud, emitting a loud wail. The cry pierced my ears and pounded at my brain. I wanted nothing more than to quiet it. This was not my son's cry. But my wife recovered from her surprise and shoved me away before kneeling to console the wailing, miserable creature.

I walked away, staring at the stuffed bear in my hands.

Later, my wife found me in our bedroom, rifling through a photo album. It documented everything in our journey as young parents, from the moment her pregnancy tests came out positive to the birth of our beautiful baby boy. I was still staring at the photo of my son wrapped in a baby blanket when she sat next to me.

“What has gotten into you? You know he is frail. We must be careful with him,” she said.

I shook my head. I did not want to turn the page, content with staring at my baby boy. I did not want to see photos of a toddler or a young boy I did not remember or recognize. I did not want to see if I would be in the photos, smiling and holding a creature masquerading as my son. Worse yet, I did not know what I feared more—if I found photos indeed, or if I did not and was met with blank pages. Which was more frightening, to know I was missing years of memories, or to find something that could prove to me that that boy was not supposed to exist?

What did its presence say about me, about my wife?

“We did everything we can, my love,” my wife was still talking beside me. Her voice was warm, but it did not pierce through the coldness in my heart. She continued, “It’s all worth it. All the debt, the medical bills, the exhaustion... it’s all worth it just so he could be here.”

“No, no, it’s not,” I answered.

My wife just looked at me with her brown eyes. Her eyes were lighter than mine, catching coffee hues in the sun while mine remained dark pools bordering on obsidian. I thought she might rebuke me, but perhaps she mistook my tone for exhaustion or denial.

“I understand, my love,” she said.

Did she?

Just then, the child cried in the room next door. I made no move. My wife shifted, instinctively turning to the sound, but turned to me one last time to say, “We’ll be okay. We’ve had a long day. Go to bed. I’ll take care of him.”

Then she left to cater to that fiend.

I kept staring at my baby boy, wondering where he went.

The next day gave me no clarity or relief. I spent the early dawn looking through drawers, checking my and my wife's bank account. I saw medical bills. Written IOUs. Messages asking friends for money. All it made me feel was intense rage. All this debt over a creature I did not call mine.

I went downstairs to see the creature sitting in a high chair, hitting his breakfast with the bowl of a wooden spoon instead of eating it. When I entered the dining room, he turned his head to look at me. I could almost hear the creaking of something definitely not human in his neck. Perhaps he did not have bones. Perhaps he was made of hellfire and steel. Perhaps he would bleed black if I smashed his head into the ground.

“Papa,” the creature said. His eyes remained dark. Not dark like mine, but something infinitely more evil. His tiny mouth moved, babbling, covered in spit and crumbs. I almost reached for the hand towel, not to wipe its disgusting lips and its dripping chin, but with the intent to smother him with it.

I sat down two chairs away from the child. My wife, who sat near it, frowned at me as she tried to keep the child from making a mess of its breakfast. “Really? He’s not contagious, love. He’s fine now. Come here, come nearer.”

And I did, because I did not want to upset her any further. Still, I wondered if she was perhaps infected with the same thing that the miserable creature oozed with. It was the only explanation why she played mother to this thing.

I stared at the child as it ate. I tried to find the slope of my wife’s nose in its own, tried to hear something familiar in its rattling, coughing voice—but to no avail. Where did my boy go? Who is this child, taking his place, fooling his mother?

When the child turned to me and extended its wooden spoon, I jumped in surprise as though it held a weapon. Before I could stop myself, I snatched the utensil from its claws and hit it in the head. It cried out, a sharp sound that I was certain could only come from the devil himself. Its pain satisfied me. I was about to go in for a second blow when my wife had finally had enough. She jumped between me and the creature and wrestled the spoon away. When my eyes finally found her face, I felt regret and sadness bloom when I saw her cheeks stained with tears.

“What is wrong with you?” she cried. “We did everything to have him back! Why are you doing this? Do you want him to go back to the hospital?”

And I wanted desperately to cry out, Yes! Take that thing back where you got it and make sure it stays away. Strip it of our boy’s clothes. Take away our son’s toys from its grimy, terrible hands. Or so help me, I will send it back to hell where it came from.

But my wife did not stay with me long enough to hear the words. She kneeled in front of the crying fiend, that creep that clung to her breast. She made shushing noises too gentle for an undeserving creature. I kept staring and could only see life and death.

Life, in my wife’s gentle face, in her enveloping embrace, in her shining hair that glinted like brown leaves falling in October.

Death, right beside her, in the face of a goblin child. In its clammy skin, pale and gray instead of the rich brown of our kind. Its thin hair clung to its skull in weblike strands, easily blown away by the slightest puff of air from my wife’s breathing. Its mouth was contorted in a terrible frown, and a hacking cry resounded from the cavern where I could make out yellowing, browning kernels of teeth. It was more broken doll than child. More monster than human. And I knew without a doubt that it would eat my wife’s heart the way it ate my son and took his place.

So yes, my wife did everything in her power to bring this thing into our home. She took out debts. She gave away her precious time, leaving me alone and confused and afraid. Did she not see that her husband was in pain? Did she not see that the love of her life deserved more of her attention than this pathetic, miserable beast? She did everything to save this damned thing.

In turn, I will do what it takes to save her. I will do everything in my power to get this monster out of our home, out of our lives. My wife will have to learn to let go, or risk being torn by claws that dig into her skin. It will be a game of pushing and pulling, but it will end the way I need it to end. This creature must be gone. I must get my wife back, before she disappears like my own baby boy disappeared.

When my wife was asleep, I crept out of her embrace and went into my son’s room. The creature lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. It did not sleep. It did not cry. When I entered the room, it just stared at me with blank, listless eyes. Any remorse or hesitation I might have felt was erased by that dark, abyss-like stare. I knew this was not my son. And I would do what it takes to send him back where he belonged.

The white baby blanket I remembered wrapping my boy in when he was a newborn was slung over the bed frame. I took it and stared down at the beast. It lay there, waiting. Challenging me, saying not with words, “Do what you must.” It did not cry out for me. It did not call me "Papa." Not anymore.

So I covered its face and held my hand over it. Hot puffs of air from its nostrils pushed against the cloth. Its breathing slowed. At first, the creature clawed at my hands, a desperate final instinct to stay alive. But no matter its grotesqueness, it was still smaller than me. It was powerless against my hand that covered its entire face. When it finally fell still, no longer breathing, I felt my chest lighten in relief.

I slept peacefully that night. My dreams were filled with a bouncing bubbly boy. I knew that by banishing the creature masquerading as my son, my real son would finally be at peace, wherever he was.

When I woke up, my wife was already out of bed. I stretched under the covers, a lazy smile on my face for the first time in so long. When I got out of our room, I expected to smell breakfast being cooked, coffee being brewed. I waited to hear my wife's singing. But my wife was not downstairs. Everything was far too quiet.

Instead, she was in our boy’s room. She stood in front of the bed, cradling the corpse in her arms. She fell onto the mattress with a thud, the same sound when I fell onto a chair outside the delivery room the day our son was born. When I called her name, her face slowly tilted up to meet mine. I heard the creaking in her neck at that simple action. When I met her eyes, they weren’t the brown I knew and loved. They were empty. Blank. Definitely not human. When she spoke, her voice echoed in my ears, a monotonous sound.

“My love, why?” she asked.

And a chill went down my spine as the realization came to me:

This isn’t my wife. Not anymore.