We decided to undergo genetic testing, seeking clarity. Two weeks later, the results arrived. As Emma opened the email, her hands trembled. I stood beside her, heart pounding. When the screen confirmed what we already felt in our hearts—our daughter was biologically ours—Emma exhaled a shaky breath, tears of relief welling in her eyes.
“All this time,” she whispered, “I never knew.”
I wrapped an arm around her, offering a gentle reminder. “It doesn’t change a thing. She’s ours—she always was.”
In the years that followed, we faced questions from family, friends, and even strangers. “Is she adopted?” became a common inquiry. At first, Emma hesitated, unsure how to respond. But soon, she answered with confidence: “No. She’s ours.”
One evening, as our daughter curled up in Emma’s lap, she asked in a small voice, “Mommy, why is my skin different from yours?”
Emma smiled, brushing a curl from her forehead. “Because you’re special, my love. You carry the beauty of both of us.”
That night, as our daughter slept, Emma turned to me, gratitude shining in her eyes. “Thank you for reminding me that day in the hospital,” she said.
“For what?” I asked.
“That she’s ours,” she replied. “That’s all that ever mattered.”
Looking down at our daughter—so loved, so perfect—I knew she was right. No matter the questions, no matter the curiosity from others, one truth remained unchanged: She was ours, wholly and completely, from the very first moment we met her.