From the beginning, I knew I didn’t quite fit into my husband Ben’s world. His mother, Karen, never said anything outright, but it was clear I wasn’t what she’d hoped for in a daughter-in-law. I didn’t come from a wealthy background, and I certainly didn’t attend country club brunches. Still, I loved Ben, and we built a life together—through his job losses, the early days of his startup, and eventually, the birth of our son.
I thought having a baby might bring us closer as a family. Our son had Ben’s features—the same chin, dark hair, and expressive eyes. But instead of bonding, things got worse.
Karen visited once after the birth, then vanished. No calls, no check-ins. And then, one evening, Ben sat me down and hesitantly shared that his mother had suggested a paternity test—for our son. Even his father thought it might be a good idea. I waited for Ben to defend me. He didn’t.
Instead, he said, “It wouldn’t hurt to be sure. It would give us peace of mind.”
I agreed, but only on one condition: if we were testing our son’s DNA, we would also test Ben’s—against his father’s. If trust was going to be questioned, it would be done fairly.
Ben, to his credit, understood and agreed. He even found a subtle way to collect his father’s DNA using a toothbrush under the guise of testing a product for his business. A few weeks later, the results came in.
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