Fifteen years after raising our son together, my husband suddenly said:
*”I’ve always had my doubts. It’s time we do a DNA test.”*
I laughedthe idea was absurd. But the laughter died on my lips when we actually went through with it.
It happened on a Tuesday. We were having dinner when he fixed me with a look that made my blood run cold.
*”I’ve been meaning to say this for a while,”* he began, voice low. *”But I didnt want to hurt you. Our son doesnt look like me.”*
*”He takes after your motherweve talked about this!”* I argued.
*”Doesnt matter. I want the test. Or we divorce.”*
I loved my husband. I adored my son. I had never been unfaithfulthere had never been anyone else. But to ease his mind, we went to the clinic and gave our samples.
A week later, the results came in. The doctor called, urgent, demanding we come immediately. My hands shook as I walked down the sterile corridor. When I entered, he looked up from his papers and said gravely, *”Youd better sit down.”*
*”Why? Whats wrong?”* My pulse pounded in my ears.
Then came the words that shattered my world.
*”Your husband is not the boys biological father.”*
*”Thats impossible!”* My voice cracked. *”Ive never been with anyone else!”*
The doctor exhaled heavily.
*”Thats not the strangest part. Youre not his biological mother either.”*
The room spun. I couldnt breathe.
*”What? How?”*
*”We need to verify,”* he said. *”Run the tests again. Check the records. Find out what happened.”*
We repeated the tests. The results didnt change. For two weeks, I moved through life in a daze. My husband barely spoke, watching me with suspicion, while I held our son at night, crying silently.
We began diggingold hospital files, midwives, nurses who worked there at the time. Records were missing, but slowly, the truth emerged.
Two months later, we had our answer. There had been a mix-up. Our real child had been given to another family. The boy wed raisedthe one I loved more than life itselfwasnt ours by blood.
The worst part? This wasnt the first time it had happened at that hospital. The administration had covered it up. But we found proof.
I didnt know how to live with it. My son, the one Id cherished, wasnt mine. And yet, he was.
It took my husband time to accept it.
And somewhere out there, our real child was growing upin a strangers arms.
