From the moment I married Adam, I knew his mother, Denise, disapproved of me. She never had to say it directly — the sharp looks, the subtle corrections, and the constant comparisons to Adam’s ex said enough. I wasn’t from the “right” background, and when Adam and I eloped instead of giving her the extravagant wedding she envisioned, her disappointment became clear.
Still, I hoped the birth of our son might soften her. For a while, it seemed it had. She visited, held the baby, and even smiled. But before long, her distance returned. Then one night, Adam shared the words that would change everything:
“My mom thinks we should do a DNA test.”
The suggestion cut deep. Adam explained that his parents had raised concerns and believed a test would “clear the air.” I stayed calm, but inside, I was shaken. I agreed to the test — on one condition: if my son and I were being questioned, then Adam’s parentage should also be confirmed. Adam hesitated, but eventually agreed.
We completed our son’s DNA test, then quietly arranged another. During a family dinner, Adam discreetly collected what was needed. The results arrived just before our son’s first birthday.
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