I was thirty-three years old, thirty-five weeks pregnant, and convinced that the hardest chapter of my life was already behind me. Years of infertility had tested every ounce of patience and hope I had. Doctor visits, injections, silent disappointments—I believed surviving that meant we were finally safe. When I felt my daughter move inside me and saw the nursery ready, I thought the future had finally settled into place.
Michael and I had grown up side by side. We met young, stayed together through college, first careers, and tight budgets. Nothing about us felt rushed. I was an elementary school teacher. He worked in IT. We built a quiet, dependable life—or so I believed.
Trying to conceive nearly unraveled me. Some mornings, I cried alone in the school bathroom so my students wouldn’t see. Each negative test chipped away at my confidence. When I finally saw that faint second line, I collapsed on the floor sobbing. Michael held me and said we’d made it. I believed him.
But as my pregnancy progressed, something changed. He stayed out later. His affection faded. The hand that once rested on my stomach disappeared. When I asked what was wrong, I got vague answers and brushed-off excuses. I told myself it was fear. I told myself it was normal.
By thirty-five weeks, exhaustion ruled everything. My body hurt constantly. The doctor warned me labor could come early. One night, while folding baby clothes, Michael called to say friends were coming over. I said I needed rest. He dismissed it. I didn’t fight back—I was too tired.
I fell asleep amid the noise.
I woke to him shaking my shoulder, his face tense under the hallway light. He didn’t sit down. He paced. Then he said it.
“I want a DNA test.”
The words didn’t register at first. He blamed timelines, stress, things his friends said. He called it peace of mind. I called it a lack of trust. He accused me of overreacting and walked back to his friends like nothing had happened.
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