The day my daughter was born should have been pure joy. Instead, it cracked open everything I thought I knew about my life.
After nearly twenty hours of labor, the pain blurred into background noise the instant I heard her cry. That sharp, demanding sound cut through everything. When the nurse placed her on my chest, her tiny fingers wrapped around mine instinctively. In that moment, nothing else existed. Every fear, every sacrifice—it had all led to this.
My husband, Marcus, stood beside me. Married just over two years, he had been the model expectant father—books, apps, debates over strollers, endless planning. I expected awe, relief, joy. Instead, I saw something else: unease.
“You’re… sure?” he asked quietly.
“Sure about what?” I whispered.
“That she’s mine.”
Time froze. My heart sank.
“She doesn’t look like us,” he said. “I just need to understand.”
I tightened my hold on my daughter. “Babies change,” I said. “Hair color, eye color—it’s normal.”
“I know,” he muttered. “I just need certainty.”
He wanted a paternity test. Right there, moments after our daughter’s birth, he chose doubt over trust.
“Fine,” I said. “Get the test.”
Two days later, Marcus packed a bag. He said he needed space while we waited for results. I watched him drive away, holding our newborn, silence swallowing the house.
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