I stared at him, unsure of what to expect. My husband looked down at his hands, fidgeting like a child caught doing something wrong. Finally, he blurted out, “I don’t think she’s mine.”
I blinked, utterly confused. “What are you talking about?”
He sighed deeply, avoiding my gaze. “While you were gone, I was up late reading, and I fell down this rabbit hole about paternity fraud and genetic traits. I started looking at her features… her hair, her nose, her eyes. She doesn’t look like me, and I—I just can’t shake the feeling.”
I was stunned into silence for a moment before I found my voice. “You’re telling me you’ve been sitting here, alone with our daughter, obsessing over whether she looks like you instead of just loving her?”
He flinched at my tone. “It’s not like that. It’s just… I don’t know. She doesn’t feel like she’s mine.”
My jaw dropped. “She’s nine weeks old! Of course she doesn’t look like anyone yet! Babies change, for God’s sake.”
But he shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get it out of my head. I—I think we should do a paternity test, just to be sure.”
I stared at him, feeling a mix of anger and heartbreak. “Are you serious right now? You think I cheated on you?”
“I don’t think you cheated,” he said quickly. “I just… I need to be certain. For my own peace of mind.”
I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. After everything—agreeing to have a child when I wasn’t ready, adjusting my life to include his dreams—this was how he repaid me? By doubting me?
“Fine,” I said coldly. “We’ll do the test. But if you’re wrong, and you’ve let your paranoia ruin this, I don’t know if I can forgive you.”
He nodded, looking relieved, which only made me angrier.
A week later, the results came in. I handed him the envelope without a word, my heart pounding. He opened it, read the results, and froze.
“99.99% match,” he whispered. His face crumpled with guilt.
I crossed my arms, glaring at him. “Well? Do you feel better now?”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice shaking. “I don’t know what got into me. I was exhausted, and I—”
I cut him off. “No. You don’t get to blame exhaustion for accusing me of cheating. You doubted me, and worse, you doubted your own daughter.”
He reached for my hand, but I pulled away. “I’ll forgive you eventually,” I said, my voice icy, “but you have a lot to prove before I can trust you again.”
From that day on, things were never quite the same. He tried his best to make amends, but there was always a shadow of his betrayal. As much as I loved him, I realized some things could never fully be undone.