**Diary Entry – 15th June**
The other day, my mate Sarah sighed and said, “Back in the day, there were no DNA tests. People lived, raised their kids, built families. Who looked like who? That was just gossip for the old dears at tea time. Now? One test, and your whole life goes up in smoke. Tell me, who really needs that truth? The kind that shatters lives?”
Then she told me a story—one that kept me awake at night for a week.
Once, there was a young family. Perfectly ordinary—just him, her, and their little boy, five years old. Happy as can be. The husband adored his wife and worshipped that child. Worked hard, saved up, made plans. Little Oliver rode on his shoulders, went to football practice, had bedtime stories read to him. Grandparents doted on the lad. A picture-perfect family. Until everything went wrong.
One day, the boy started complaining of pains. His head spun, his legs wouldn’t obey him, some days he was too weak to get out of bed. Doctors, tests, more tests—no answers. Then a specialist sent them to a geneticist.
The questions began: Any family illnesses? Hereditary conditions? Relatives with similar symptoms? The parents shrugged—no one, nothing like it in either family. Asked the grandparents—still nothing.
“Strange,” the doctor said. “Very strange. In thirty years, I’ve never seen a case like this without at least one known carrier in the bloodline. It doesn’t just appear out of nowhere. In theory, maybe—but in practice? First time.”
Every new doctor said the same: “Hereditary? No one in the family? Impossible!” The father’s patience wore thin. One day, without a word to his wife, he secretly took a DNA test. The result hit him like a brick to the chest.
The boy wasn’t his.
When his wife saw the paper in his hand, she went pale. Then the tears came. Then the confession: yes, there’d been one mistake, long before their wedding. When they’d just met, things were uncertain. A slip-up. She’d truly believed the child was his.
Hell followed. Screaming, shouting, hands shaking, words falling apart. Divorce papers within the week. The father’s mum—little Oliver’s gran—collapsed with sky-high blood pressure. Grandad landed in hospital with chest pains. The boy didn’t understand a thing. Just yesterday, his dad had carried him piggyback and promised a trip to the zoo. Now? No calls. No visits. No explanations. And why had Gran Margaret suddenly said he was nothing to her?
“Tell me,” Sarah said, staring out the window, “why did he take that test? Life was fine. He loved that boy, raised him. So what if he had doubts? They’d have passed. It was all too quick. He didn’t need the truth. That truth helped no one. Destroyed everything.”
I stayed quiet. She went on:
“If she’d lied, said nothing happened—even the doctors said it could’ve been a fluke. That’s all. But now? The boy’s got no father. The wife’s alone. His parents are in hospital. Everyone’s broken. And for what? The truth?”
Since then, I can’t stop thinking about it. Is it better to live with doubt, or know your life was built on a lie? Would it change how much you love the child? If he’s still your son—because you raised him, you’re his dad—does another man’s blood even matter?
Hard to say. Everyone’s got their own truth. But Sarah’s words still echo in my head:
“A father isn’t the one who made him. It’s the one who stayed.”
