My Boss's Son Refused to Let Go of Me in a Chicago Diner — Then an Old Photograph and DNA Test Uncovered the Dark Secret My Former Mentor Hid for Four Years
The copy of the birth registration felt like a blazing torch in my hands, cutting through the fog of lies Sofia had woven around my life. Niko Goga’s desperate confession had stripped away the last layer of doubt: Sofia Vangjeli wasn’t just a liar; she was a criminal, a puppeteer manipulating lives for profit.
Armed with this new evidence, I felt a surge of defiant strength. Sofia’s smear campaign had targeted my reputation, but I now held the key to dismantle hers.
Then, an unexpected call came. An old, raspy voice on the other end, speaking rapid Albanian.
“Elena Korda?” the voice asked. “This is Baba Teuta. I saw the flyers. I know Sofia. I know about Luan.”
My hand instinctively tightened on the phone. Baba Teuta. I knew the name. An elder in the community, almost a legend. She was known as a traditional midwife, a keeper of old ways, rarely seen outside of religious ceremonies. What could she possibly know?
“How do you know my name?” I asked, my voice cautious.
“I know many things,” she said, her voice gravelly but firm. “I was there. Four years ago. In that transit center.”
My breath hitched. The transit center in Europe. The place Sofia had taken me after my difficult journey, the place where I had given birth, the place where I was told my baby died.
“Meet me,” she instructed, her voice leaving no room for argument. “Tomorrow. My apartment. Number 20.”
Her address was a small, unassuming building on the edge of the Albanian enclave, far from Sofia’s polished cultural center. I arrived the next day, heart pounding, the birth registration copy tucked into my purse.
Baba Teuta’s apartment was filled with the scent of dried herbs and old wood. She sat in a worn armchair, a tiny, wizened woman with piercing, ancient eyes that seemed to see right through me. Her face was a roadmap of wrinkles, but her gaze was sharp and clear.
“You are Elena,” she stated, without question. “The girl with the strong spirit. Sofia thought she could break you.”
I sat across from her, my hands clasped tightly in my lap. “You said you were there?”
“I was,” she nodded slowly. “Sofia runs more than a charity. She runs a different kind of business. I volunteered at that transit center. To help our people, the vulnerable ones. Women like you, coming from nothing, with nowhere to go.”
Her eyes hardened. “Sofia was supposed to be a savior. But she saw opportunities.”
“She told me my baby died,” I whispered, the words still raw after four years.
“A lie,” Teuta stated simply. “I was a midwife in our village for fifty years. I know a healthy birth when I see one. Your boy, Luan, he came into this world strong and crying. A fighter.”
My eyes stung with tears. “But I don’t remember. I was so sick. So weak.”
“Sofia gave you something,” Teuta revealed, her voice dropping. “A sedative. Just after the birth. Said it was for the pain, to help you rest. But it was too much. You slept for almost two days. When you woke, she told you the baby was gone. She arranged for a quick, quiet burial, she said. But there was no burial.”
A cold wave of horror washed over me. Sedated. Deliberately. To facilitate the theft. The cruelty of it was breathtaking.
Baba Teuta reached for a small wooden box beside her chair. She opened it carefully, pulling out a thick, leather-bound diary, its pages yellowed with age.
“I keep my own records,” she said, tapping the book. “Old habits. Every birth, every death, every child I helped. And every child Sofia moved through her ‘charitable pipeline.’ I saw her do it many times. Convince a desperate young woman to give up her child for ‘adoption.’ Sometimes, just take them.”
She opened the diary, flipping to a specific page. “Here. Four years ago. Elena Korda. Healthy baby boy. Transferred under Sofia Vangjeli’s care, destination unknown. Marked ‘Deceased’ in official papers.”
Her finger traced the entry, then pointed to other similar entries on the page. Dates, names, “unclaimed” or “deceased” children who vanished under Sofia’s watch. This was more than just my story. This was a pattern, a ring.
“I wanted to speak then,” Teuta said, her voice heavy with regret. “But Sofia… she had power. And I am old. But these flyers. Blaming you, the mother. It is a sin against God and against our people. I cannot die with this on my conscience.”
She handed me the diary. The brittle pages felt like a sacred trust. It was not just my story in these pages, but the stories of countless other women, betrayed and silenced. This was the proof I needed, not just for Luan, but for every child Sofia had trafficked.
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