After years of trying, Stephanie and I finally became parents. But when our baby was born, our joy turned to shock. The baby had dark skin and curls, and Stephanie, terrified, insisted, “That’s not our baby!”
I was stunned, disbelief creeping in. Our families left, unable to process the scene. As doubt gnawed at me, Stephanie swore she’d never been unfaithful. My anger wavered when I saw the baby had my eyes and dimple. But confusion still clouded my mind.
Seeking answers, I left the room, only to face my mother’s harsh judgment. She urged me to leave Stephanie, convinced of betrayal. Despite my doubts, I refused to abandon my family without the truth.
Hours later, a DNA test confirmed I was the biological father. The doctor explained how recessive genes could cause unexpected traits. Relief washed over me, but guilt quickly followed. How could I have doubted Stephanie?
Returning to her, I handed over the results. Tears of relief filled her eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, regretting my doubt.
Holding my wife and daughter, I vowed never to let doubt or judgment tear us apart again. This was my family, and I would protect them no matter what.
