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What If She Isn’t Really My Daughter? Why I Needed a DNA Test to Be Sure Nikita sat thoughtfully watching his wife, Olivia, dote lovingly on their newborn daughter. Yet he couldn’t shake a nagging thought: what if the baby wasn’t really his? Last year, Nikita had been sent away on a month-long work trip, and just weeks after returning, Olivia shared what she thought was wonderful news—they were expecting a child. At first, Nikita was overjoyed. But things changed when Olivia’s sister visited and, in passing, revealed that she too had taken a DNA test on her own son—to put any doubts her partner had about paternity to rest. “Liv, let’s do a DNA test as well—just for peace of mind,” Nikita suggested. Olivia exploded in anger, launching objects around the house, the argument so loud it prompted the neighbours to bang on the wall. “What? What’s so outrageous?” Nikita insisted, feeling his suspicions deepen. Her dramatic reaction only confirmed his fears. “I just want to be sure, that’s all.” “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?” Olivia cried, hurling another cushion. “I was away for a whole month,” Nikita pointed out. “How do I know what went on here?” He proposed they could get the clinic details from Olivia’s sister. Olivia, fuming, stormed out of the room, slamming the nursery door behind her. *** Nikita vented his worries to his mother, Anne. Over coffee, she quietly sided with him, even hinting at a suspicious incident: a time she had visited while Nikita was away, only for Olivia to take an unusually long time to answer the door—and, when she did, there were men’s shoes in the hallway. Though Anne was careful not to jump to conclusions, her story only stoked Nikita’s paranoia. She urged him to push for the test, if only for his own peace of mind as a father. *** In the end, Nikita got the test done secretly while out with the baby. When the results arrived, he declared: “You can relax—Aria is my daughter. Like I promised, I won’t bring this up ever again.” But Olivia was livid: “Did you really do the test without my permission?” “Yes, I did. I needed to know,” he admitted. “That’s a problem,” she replied sadly. The next day Nikita returned from work to find his wife and daughter gone, their things packed up. On the table lay a single note: “Your lack of trust has destroyed everything. I won’t live with a traitor—I want a divorce. I don’t want anything from you, not the house or even support. I just want you out of our lives.” Enraged, Nikita tried calling Olivia—only for a man to answer, telling him to stop calling. Nikita assumed the worst, convinced she’d already moved on. The divorce was finalised swiftly; little Aria stayed with her mother and never saw her biological father again.

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What if shes not really my daughter? Maybe I should do a DNA test.

James found himself watching his wife, Emily, coo lovingly over their newborn girl, yet he just couldnt shake this persistent nagging thought. He genuinely believed that little baby might not be his.

Last year, James had been sent away on a month-long business trip. Just a couple of weeks after his return, Emily shared what she felt was fantastic newsthey were going to have a baby.

At first, James had been thrilled. But then, during a family gathering, Emilys sister, Charlotte, told a rather intriguing tale about how she had done a DNA test for her own son, just so her partner would have no doubts about paternity.

Em, why dont we do a DNA test as well? Just for peace of mind, James suggested one evening.

Emilys reaction was immediateand volcanic. A full-blown row broke out, complete with thrown cushions and slammed doors. Even the neighbours ended up banging on the wall.

Whats so wrong with it? James pressed, his suspicions now swirling. Emily must have cheated, he reasoned. Why else would she blow up over something so innocent? I just want to be sure, thats all.

How could you even think that? Emily was practically seething, hurling another pillow at him. Have I ever given you any reason to doubt me?

I was away for a whole month, James replied with a forced smirk. Who knows what you got up to while I was gone? If we do the test, Ill know the truth and Ill never mention it again. When shall we go? We can ask your sister for the clinics address.

In your dreams, Emily spat, retreating to the nursery and slamming the door behind her.

***************************************************

You know, Mum, James later confided to his mother, Helen, over a cup of tea, Im not asking for the moon. Why does she have to get so worked up?

His mum gave him a level look as she poured his tea. Emilys conscience isnt clean, love. Id bet she had the child with another man, and now shes afraid the truth will come out. And there was something else Helen hesitated, as though unsure whether to continue. When you were away, something odd happened.

What was it? James was instantly hooked.

Look, I dont want to meddle in your marriage, Helen said with a sigh, staring into her mug. I dropped by to discuss the plans for your fathers sixtieth. Emily didnt open the door for ages, though I knew she was in. When she finally did, she looked completely flustered…and there were mens shoes in the hall.

And what did she tell you? James demanded, his anger bubbling.

She said thered been a burst pipe, Helen rolled her eyes. I mean honestly, she could have thought of a better excuse.

Why didnt you tell me this sooner?

I never got into the flat, so I had no proof, she replied, pursing her lips. I didnt want to rock the boat unnecessarily.

You should have told me! James nearly knocked his tea over in agitation. Now what am I supposed to do?

Insist on that DNA test, Helen said calmly, barely hiding a smirk. She never had liked her daughter-in-law. Or do it yourself. Youre the father; its your right.

************************************************

Nothing to worry about, James declared, discarding a now-redundant envelope the courier had just delivered. Sophie is my daughter, after all. As promised, Ill never mention it again.

I dont quite understand, Emily said in a sharp tone, eyeing the open letter with suspicion. You did that damn test behind my back?

I did, yes, James replied matter-of-factly. Popped in for a quick swab while I was out with Sophieit didnt take long. Shes mine, so theres no issue.

There is an issue, Emily whispered. And its a shame you cant see it.

The next morning, James left for work as if nothing had happened. But that evening, he came home to an empty flat. Emily and the baby were gone. All that remained was a lonely slip of paper on the coffee table.

Your mistrust destroyed everything we had. I refuse to live with a traitor. Im filing for divorce. I dont want your flat, your money, or anything elseI just want you out of our lives.

James was furious. How dare Emily walk out on himand take Sophie too! He snatched up his phone and started calling her frantically.

A man answered. He listened in silence to a tirade of curses before calmly saying, Dont call again.

I knew itshes already moved in with another bloke! James raged, trembling with anger. Didnt even wait to leave before finding someone else!

It never even crossed his mind that Emily might have gone to her parents house, and that it could have been her brother answering because she was putting Sophie to bed. James had made up his mind.

Their divorce went through quickly, both agreeing without argument. Little Sophie stayed with her mother and never saw her biological father again.

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The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stephens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. His temples throbbed—the last of the holiday salads had been finished off yesterday, and this morning he’d packed away Christmas decorations. The house felt too quiet. Pulling his cap over his ears, he pocketed his phone and carefully descended the stairs, gripping the banister as usual. In the pale January midday, the courtyard looked like a stage set: cleared pathways, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor brushed off the bench by the second entrance. Snow tumbled softly from the wooden planks. This was a good place to think, especially when it was deserted—a few minutes on the bench, then back inside. “Mind if I join you?” a man’s voice asked. Victor turned his head. A tall man in a navy coat, about fifty-five, with a vaguely familiar face. “Plenty of room,” Victor replied, scooting over. “Which flat are you from?” “Forty-three, second floor. Moved in three weeks ago. Michael.” “Victor Stephens,” he said, shaking the offered hand automatically. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael produced a pack of cigarettes. “Is it alright if I smoke?” “Go on, feel free.” Victor hadn’t smoked in ten years, but the tobacco scent suddenly carried him back to the newsroom where he’d spent most of his life. He caught himself wanting to inhale it and quickly pushed the thought aside. “How long have you lived here?” Michael asked. “Since ’87. The whole block was brand new back then.” “I used to work nearby at the Metalworkers’ Community Centre. Sound technician.” Victor perked up. “With Valery Zachary?” “That’s right! You knew him?” “I wrote a profile on him, back in eighty-nine. For that anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ performed?” “I could tell you every detail of that show!” Michael grinned. “We dragged in these giant speakers, the power supply kept sparking…” The conversation took on a life of its own. Names surfaced, stories—some funny, some bittersweet. Victor found himself thinking he should be heading home, but each memory led to another: musicians, equipment, backstage secrets. He’d grown unaccustomed to long chats. In his last years at the paper he only churned out urgent copy, and after retiring, he closed himself off. He’d convinced himself it was easier not to rely on anyone, not to get attached. But now, something inside was slowly thawing. “You know,” Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, “I’ve still got an archive at home. Posters, photos. Concert tapes, too—I did the recordings myself. If you’d like to see them…” What for? Victor wondered. Then I’ll feel obligated. What if he wants to become neighbourly friends—my routine will be thrown off. And what could I possibly see that’s new? “Could be worth a look,” Victor replied. “When’s good for you?” “Anytime. Five o’clock tomorrow? I’ll be in from work then.” “Alright,” Victor fished out his phone and opened his contacts. “Take my number, we’ll call if plans change.” That evening, he struggled to fall asleep. He replayed their conversation, called up old details. More than once he reached for the phone—ready to call it off and blame his busy schedule. But he never did. In the morning, he was woken by a call. The screen read: “Michael, neighbour.” “Changed your mind?” Michael’s voice sounded a little unsure. “No,” Victor answered. “I’ll see you at five.”
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Hypochondria or a Genuine Diagnosis?
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What If She Isn’t Really My Daughter? I Need a DNA Test Nikita couldn’t shake off a nagging suspicion as he watched his wife, Olivia, cooing over their newborn daughter. He seriously doubted the baby was his. Just last year, Nikita had to go away for a month-long business trip. A couple of weeks after he returned, Olivia shared what she thought was wonderful news: they were expecting a baby. At first, Nikita was thrilled. But then Olivia’s sister visited and casually dropped a story about having had a DNA test done for her own son—just to reassure her partner about paternity. “Liv, let’s do a DNA test, too. Just for peace of mind,” Nikita suggested. His wife’s reaction was immediate—a raging argument broke out, with things flying and the neighbours banging on the walls. “What’s the big deal?” Nikita insisted, now more convinced than ever of his suspicions. “I just want to be sure, that’s all.” “How could you even think that?” Olivia shouted, tossing another pillow his way. “Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?” “I was away for a month,” Nikita retorted with a crooked smile. “How do I know what happened here while I was gone? Let’s do the test—I’ll see the result and never bring it up again. So, when are we going? We can use your sister’s clinic.” “In your next life,” Olivia spat, slamming the door as she left for the nursery. *************************************************** “You know,” Nikita complained to his mother over coffee, “I’m not asking for anything extraordinary. So why is she so upset?” “She must have a guilty conscience,” his mum, Anne Peterson, replied. “Mark my words, she had that daughter with someone else and is scared you’ll find out. Besides,” she hesitated, “when you were away, there was something that happened…” “What was it?” Nikita’s interest was piqued. “I try not to meddle, but I came over to discuss your father’s birthday. She took forever to answer the door—even though I knew she was home. When she finally opened up, she looked disheveled. And there were men’s shoes in the hallway.” “What did she say?” Nikita demanded, outraged. “Said it was a burst pipe,” his mother rolled her eyes. “Could’ve come up with something better, really.” “Why didn’t you tell me before?” “I never got inside the flat, so there’s no proof,” she retorted. “Didn’t want to cause trouble unnecessarily.” “You should have!” Nikita exclaimed, nearly spilling his coffee. “Really should have! So what now?” “Make sure you do the DNA test,” Anne said, hiding a smirk. She’d never liked Olivia. “Or do it yourself. You’re the father, you have the right.” ************************************************ “You can relax,” Nikita dropped the now-unnecessary envelope delivered by courier. “Ari is my daughter. Like I promised, I’ll never bring it up again.” “I don’t get it,” Olivia said, eyeing the opened envelope with suspicion. “Did you do that damned test without asking me?” “Yeah,” Nikita replied casually. “Stopped by the clinic while I was out with our daughter. Didn’t take long. She’s mine, so it’s all good.” “There is a problem,” she said quietly. “And it’s a shame you can’t see it.” The next morning, Nikita left for work as usual. That evening, he came home to an empty flat. His wife and daughter were gone, and all Olivia’s belongings with them. Only a handwritten note sat on the coffee table: “Your lack of trust has destroyed everything between us. I refuse to live with a traitor, and I’m filing for divorce. I don’t want anything from you—no flat, no alimony. I just want you out of our lives.” Nikita was furious. How dare Olivia leave him—and take his daughter with her! He grabbed his phone and started calling around. A man answered, listened silently to Nikita’s outburst, and asked him not to call again. “I knew she was cheating on me!” Nikita fumed. “She couldn’t wait to run to some other man! Good riddance!” He never considered that Olivia might have gone to her parents’, and it was her brother who answered, simply protecting his sister who had just gotten Ari to sleep. Nikita had made up his mind. The divorce was quick and mutual. Little Ari stayed with her mother and never saw her biological father again…
06
No More “Shoulds”: When Anton walked into the kitchen and saw three plates of dried-up pasta, an overturned yoghurt pot, and an open exercise book, he was too tired to tell Vera or Kostya off. Instead, he just started tidying up. Vera didn’t look up from her phone, Kostya’s rucksack was in the middle of the hallway, and Anton was worn out from work and his mother’s demands. The family drifted through their routines—homework, chores—but no one talked about what mattered. But that evening, Anton chose honesty over duty. He called everyone to the kitchen—not to nag, but to talk. They sat together: Vera defensive, Kostya wary, Anton uncertain. For once, they spoke not about “what needs to be done” but about how they were actually feeling. Anton admitted his fears: money problems, job cuts, his mother’s health, and most of all, the worry that his children were struggling and he didn’t even know it because he was too busy pretending all was well. Kostya confessed he was being teased at school and couldn’t sleep. Vera admitted she didn’t want to go to college and felt lost, but everyone around her seemed to have their lives planned out. Anton told them he didn’t always cope either. For a while, they just sat with the truth in the silence. Then, together, they washed the dishes—not out of duty, but because they chose to share the work. That night, for the first time, the silence in their home felt full of possibility, not emptiness. Anton realised you don’t have to have all the answers to be a good parent. Sometimes, it’s enough to simply show up, be honest, and face the unknown together—without the weight of “shoulds” hanging over you.
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A New Family Takes Precedence Over the Old One
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We’ll Live for Each Other After his mother’s death, George slowly started to recover. His mother had spent her last days in the hospital, where she eventually passed away. Before that, she was bedridden at home, with George and his wife, Vera, taking turns to care for her. Their houses stood side by side. He had offered for his mother to move in with them, but she had stubbornly refused. “Son, your father died here, and this is where I want to die. It’s easier for me,” she sobbed, and George couldn’t go against her wishes. It would have been easier for George and his wife to care for his mother if she’d lived with them, but their daughter, Kate, was only thirteen. They didn’t want her to see her grandmother fade away. George worked in shifts, Vera was a primary school teacher, so they managed by taking turns staying the night at his mother’s house. “Mum, is Grandma going to die soon?” Kate once asked. “It’s a shame, she’s so lovely.” “I don’t know, sweetheart, but everyone’s time comes. That’s life.” When Grandma’s condition worsened, she was taken to hospital. George had a younger sister, Rita, three years his junior, with a son, Tony, who was mainly looked after by Grandma and Vera, since Rita was always “away on business trips,” as she claimed. She’d long been divorced, had little interest in caring for their mother, knowing her brother and sister-in-law took care of it all. Rita was George’s polar opposite: hard, selfish, and confrontational. Three days later, their mother passed in hospital. After the funeral, they decided to sell her house, as it needed constant attention or it would soon fall to ruin. Their mother had long since left the house to her son in her will—there had never been a real relationship with the daughter. Rita knew and didn’t even speak to their mother because of it. But after the sale, George’s wife urged him: “As soon as the money’s in your hands, split it fifty-fifty with Rita.” “Vera, Rita’s got her own flat—her ex-husband left her that when he left with nothing. She’ll only squander it anyway.” “Doesn’t matter, George. Our conscience will be clear. Otherwise she’ll just bad-mouth both of us.” George agreed, and handed over half to his sister, who responded, “Is that all? Where’s the rest?” Time passed. Kate turned fifteen, when misfortune struck again—this time, Vera fell seriously ill. She had been feeling unwell, blaming tiredness from work, until she collapsed in the garden. She was hospitalized, but it was already too late: the dreaded disease had taken hold. “Isn’t there anything you can do for my wife?” George pleaded with the doctor. “We’re doing everything we can, but she came to us too late,” the doctor shook his head. George brought Vera home, cared for her alongside Kate; her condition worsened every day. He even took time off work to be by her side, but eventually his leave ran out—while he was at work, Kate took care of her mother, feeding and washing her. One day, Rita turned up: “George, my washing machine’s broken—can you have a look?” “Alright, I’ll drop by,” he promised, and mended it after work. As he was leaving, he said, “You should come by and help us now and then, so Kate’s not left alone with Vera. She’s just a child, and it’s exhausting work even for an adult.” “Oh please, don’t go bringing up favours from years ago. Vera helped me with Tony, yes, but I was away working. Anyway, I gave her a gold ring for all that.” “Yes, you did, but she gave it straight back and you took it.” “If she didn’t want it, I’ll keep it. And anyway, it’s not the same as looking after a dying person. Don’t expect it from me.” Rita turned and left without even a thank you. George was done. “Don’t ask me for anything again. You’re heartless.” He put his sister out of his mind after that. Vera faded quickly. One day, Kate saw her father coming down the road and rushed out. “Dad, Mum’s really bad—she’s turned to the wall and won’t eat or talk.” “It’s alright, love, we’ll get through this. We will,” he reassured her, but that night Vera passed away. Father and daughter were now alone in the world. Oddly, George felt a little relief: Vera didn’t have to suffer anymore, and Kate was spared seeing it. He loved his wife, but the cruel illness had worn him and Kate down to the bone. After Vera’s funeral, grief overwhelmed George—he missed her smile, her kindness, her care. Kate mourned, but tried to comfort her father: “Dad, we did everything we could, and even though Mum’s not here, we’ll get used to it in time. The main thing is we have each other.” He was taken aback by his daughter’s maturity. She devoted herself to her father—cooking, managing the house, and sharing their daily news over dinner. Not long after, George came home and Kate told him, “Aunt Rita dropped by for Mum’s old fur coat and some other things. She said you knew.” “I never told her that. Don’t let her in again,” George told her, “lock the door as soon as you’re home. She’s no business here.” Then, George fell ill at work—severe chest pain, struggling to breathe. His colleague called an ambulance; he was rushed to hospital. Kate rushed to his bedside, brokenhearted, but a doctor comforted her: “Don’t cry, your dad just needs rest and treatment—he had a pre-heart attack.” With school, home, her father in hospital, Kate had to step up, stretching herself thin. She visited George daily, even cooking for him. One day Rita turned up with a pie. “Kate, I baked this for your dad in hospital. I won’t visit—he can’t stand me. Take it for him, don’t say it’s from me.” Soon after, Tony arrived—he sometimes helped Kate out, being her cousin. “Forgot my keys at home, just popping in. Wow, did you bake this pie?” “No, your mum did—for my dad. Let me cut you a piece, after school and all.” They shared pie and tea, then set off for the hospital together. Suddenly Tony went pale, gripped the handrail, and collapsed on the hospital steps—the doctors discovered he’d been poisoned. “What did he eat?” the doctor asked Kate. “The pie Mum baked for my dad,” Kate replied. “Don’t give your father any,” the doctor said, and took it away to investigate. Rita was called to the hospital. “Oh my God, Tony, what happened? How could you get so ill?” “It was your pie, Aunt Rita!” Kate blurted, and Rita went white as a sheet. Soon after, Rita was taken away by the police. It turned out she’d poisoned the pie, planning to kill her brother and sell his house; she assumed Kate would go to uni and live in halls. But she hadn’t reckoned on Tony eating it. When George was released from hospital, he visited Rita with Kate and Tony. “Forgive me, George, please Tony, please Kate… I see what I’ve done. Forgive me,” she sobbed. George withdrew the charges, Rita was released. Tony couldn’t forgive her—their relationship shattered—he spent more and more time with George and Kate. “Uncle George, I can never forgive my mother. I hate her—how could she?” “Tony, you can’t choose your parents. What your mum did was terrible, but she sincerely regrets it. Everyone can make a mistake. Give her a chance, forgive her—she’s suffering.” Slowly, things began to mend. Tony got into university, Kate finished school and was also planning to study—she hated the thought of leaving her father alone. “It’s fine, love, I’ll manage. You need to get your degree. We’ll live for each other—you’ll come home for weekends and holidays. Your mother always wanted you to go to teacher’s college.”
02
Couldn’t Hold Out Any Longer “I’m filing for divorce,” Vera said calmly, handing her husband a mug of tea. “Actually, I’ve already filed.” She said it as casually as if she were announcing, “Chicken with veg for dinner tonight.” “If I may ask, since when—well, never mind, not in front of the kids,” Arthur said, softening his tone when he saw his sons’ anxious faces. “What did I do wrong? And let’s not forget, kids need a father.” “Do you think I can’t find them another one?” Vera rolled her eyes dramatically and smirked. “What did you do wrong? Pretty much everything! I thought life with you would be like a calm lake, not a raging river!” “Alright, boys, finished eating?” He didn’t want to continue this conversation with the kids around. “Off you go, play. And no eavesdropping!” Arthur called after his sons, well aware of their restless curiosity. “Right, now let’s carry on.” Vera pursed her lips with displeasure. Even now he manages to be bossy! Playing ‘Father of the Year’… “I’m tired of living like this. I don’t want to spend eight hours a day at work, grinning at colleagues and tolerating clients… I want to sleep in, shop at expensive boutiques, get pampered in beauty salons. And you can’t give me that. I’ve given you the best ten years of my life—enough!” “Can we drop the theatrics?” Arthur cut her off dryly. “Wasn’t it you, ten years ago, who moved heaven and earth to marry me? I wasn’t exactly dying to settle down.” “My mistake, it happens.” The divorce was quick and quiet. Arthur reluctantly agreed to leave the boys with their mother, providing he had them every weekend and for holidays. Vera accepted without complaint. Six months later, Arthur introduced his sons to his new wife. Cheery, vivacious Lucy won their hearts at once, and the boys started looking forward to weekends with their dad—a fact that thoroughly infuriated their mother. What irritated Vera even more: Arthur had inherited a substantial sum from some distant uncle, bought a large country house, and was living the good life. He still kept his job, paid modest child support, but took pleasure in clothing his boys himself and showering them with gadgets. And he managed those child support payments with an eagle eye! If only she’d waited just six more months! Had Vera known how things would turn out… Well, she’d have played things differently! Or perhaps it wasn’t too late? ***** “How about a nice cup of tea? Like old times,” Vera flirted, twirling a strand of her hair. Her short dress showed off her figure, her expertly applied makeup easily took off a few years. She’d made an effort and looked stunning. “I haven’t got time,” Arthur replied with a cold glance. “Are the boys ready?” “They can’t find something—give them ten minutes, I know them. Maybe we could celebrate New Year together? The boys spent all afternoon decorating the tree.” “We already agreed in court: holidays are mine. We’re heading to a lovely little village for skiing and snowboarding. Lucy’s organised it all.” “But it’s a family holiday…” “Exactly. We’ll spend it—family style. Make a fuss and I’ll take the boys permanently.” As the door closed behind her ex-husband and their joyful children, Vera smashed the expensive wedding china in fury. Lucy. Always Lucy! Acting as though she’s delighted to see the boys, counting the days until they’re gone—Vera knew what monsters their kids could be! But maybe this could work… Vera smiled slyly. She hadn’t lost yet. Soon Arthur’s money would be under her control again… ***** “What’s all this?” Arthur asked, eyebrows raised at the suitcases on the doorstep. “What do you mean? Kieran’s and Jamie’s things,” Vera nudged the bulging case. “You’ve got your life sorted, so it’s my turn. Let’s face it, there aren’t many men who’ll step up for another bloke’s kids, so from now on, the boys will live with you. I’ve been to the authorities, they’re in the loop—it’s just paperwork now. I’m off on holiday with an exciting new man.” She left a stunned Arthur in the driveway as she sauntered to her waiting taxi. How long would saintly Lucy last—a week? Maybe two? And Arthur would choose the boys over his new wife—get him back, and his money with him. A fortnight passed. Then a month. Then two. No call came asking her to collect the children. And judging by the boys’ chatter, Lucy hadn’t even raised her voice! Could it be? The two little devils had become angels? Impossible! “How are the boys? Not worn out by them yet?” Vera couldn’t resist phoning her ex. “They’re brilliant, no trouble, they listen, always helping,” Arthur’s voice warmed at the mention of the boys. “Real golden lads.” “Really?” Vera was astonished. “They always made trouble for me…” “That’s because you have to spend time with children,” Arthur scoffed. “Instead, you lived on your phone. By the way, just so you know—we’re moving. I’ll bring the boys down for the holidays if you want.” “But… They’re my children too!” “You signed over all rights—you remember? Some mother you are,” Arthur laughed, and hung up. Vera was left gnashing her teeth. She hadn’t won her husband (or rather, his money) back, her new fling was a bust, and even her children would soon be far off. Not that she’d really miss them—she quite liked having her time to herself. Is this fair? Ten years of patience, only to trip just months before the good life… So Unfair…
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What If She Isn’t Really My Daughter? Why I Needed a DNA Test to Be Sure Nikita sat thoughtfully watching his wife, Olivia, dote lovingly on their newborn daughter. Yet he couldn’t shake a nagging thought: what if the baby wasn’t really his? Last year, Nikita had been sent away on a month-long work trip, and just weeks after returning, Olivia shared what she thought was wonderful news—they were expecting a child. At first, Nikita was overjoyed. But things changed when Olivia’s sister visited and, in passing, revealed that she too had taken a DNA test on her own son—to put any doubts her partner had about paternity to rest. “Liv, let’s do a DNA test as well—just for peace of mind,” Nikita suggested. Olivia exploded in anger, launching objects around the house, the argument so loud it prompted the neighbours to bang on the wall. “What? What’s so outrageous?” Nikita insisted, feeling his suspicions deepen. Her dramatic reaction only confirmed his fears. “I just want to be sure, that’s all.” “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?” Olivia cried, hurling another cushion. “I was away for a whole month,” Nikita pointed out. “How do I know what went on here?” He proposed they could get the clinic details from Olivia’s sister. Olivia, fuming, stormed out of the room, slamming the nursery door behind her. *** Nikita vented his worries to his mother, Anne. Over coffee, she quietly sided with him, even hinting at a suspicious incident: a time she had visited while Nikita was away, only for Olivia to take an unusually long time to answer the door—and, when she did, there were men’s shoes in the hallway. Though Anne was careful not to jump to conclusions, her story only stoked Nikita’s paranoia. She urged him to push for the test, if only for his own peace of mind as a father. *** In the end, Nikita got the test done secretly while out with the baby. When the results arrived, he declared: “You can relax—Aria is my daughter. Like I promised, I won’t bring this up ever again.” But Olivia was livid: “Did you really do the test without my permission?” “Yes, I did. I needed to know,” he admitted. “That’s a problem,” she replied sadly. The next day Nikita returned from work to find his wife and daughter gone, their things packed up. On the table lay a single note: “Your lack of trust has destroyed everything. I won’t live with a traitor—I want a divorce. I don’t want anything from you, not the house or even support. I just want you out of our lives.” Enraged, Nikita tried calling Olivia—only for a man to answer, telling him to stop calling. Nikita assumed the worst, convinced she’d already moved on. The divorce was finalised swiftly; little Aria stayed with her mother and never saw her biological father again.