My husband looked at the newborn right after the delivery and said with a smirk, “We need a dna test to be sure it’s mine.”. The room fell silent whenI held the baby, tears welling in my eyes. Some days later, the doctor looked at the dna test results and said, “Call the police.”…
The moment my son was born, they placed him on my chest—tiny, warm, alive. My body was still trembling from labor, my mind floating somewhere between exhaustion and awe. Around us, nurses moved efficiently, adjusting blankets and checking monitors, their voices soft with congratulations.
My husband, Ryan, stood at the foot of the bed with his arms folded. He barely looked at me. Instead, he glanced at the baby, let out a small, crooked smile, and said,
“We should get a DNA test. Just to make sure he’s mine.”
The words cut through the room like a blade. Everything stopped. A nurse froze mid-step. The doctor stared at him in disbelief. I clutched my baby closer, instinctively shielding him, as tears filled my eyes.
