My heart clung to those details like they were a lifeline.
But then I’d hear my mom’s voice in my head, telling me I was a fool for not seeing the truth. Finally, the call came. I could barely hear the doctor’s voice over the roar of blood in my ears.
But then the words cut through the noise: “The test confirms that you are the biological father.
” Relief hit me first, like a wave crashing over me, followed by guilt so sharp it made my breath catch.
How could I have doubted her? How could I have let those seeds of suspicion take root in my mind?
But the doctor wasn’t finished.
She explained about recessive genes, about how traits from generations back could suddenly show up in a child. It made sense, scientifically, but it didn’t erase the shame I felt for not trusting Stephanie.
The truth was clear now, but it didn’t make me feel any less like an idiot.
I had let doubt creep in, let it poison what should have been the happiest day of our lives.
I made my way back to the room, the results clutched in my hand like a lifeline. When I opened the door, Stephanie looked up, her eyes filled with hope I didn’t deserve. I crossed the room in three quick strides and held out the paper to her.
Her hands trembled as she read, and then she broke down, tears of relief streaming down her face.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion.
“I’m so sorry I doubted you. ” She shook her head, pulling me close, our daughter nestled between us.
“We’ll be okay now,” she said softly.
And as I held them both, I made a silent vow: no matter what came our way, no matter who tried to tear us apart, I would protect my family. This was my wife and my child, and I would never let doubt or judgment come between us again.
