“Maybe we should do the test,” he said. “Just to settle things.”
That hurt more than her accusation. The man who stood beside me in the delivery room, who cut the cord, who watched our son take his first breath—he doubted me.
But I agreed. Not because I had to, but because I refused to let my son grow up with a question mark over his identity.
The results came back a week later.
99.999% match.
He is my son. End of story.
My husband cut contact with his mother for months. When she finally apologized, she said she’d only done it “out of concern.”
But I still don’t know how you forgive someone for looking at a child you love and making him wonder if his mother is really his. Because some wounds don’t show up on paper—and some doubts never fully disappear.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
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