I’ll never forget the hospital room where my marriage died. Not from complications during birth, but from my husband Alex’s first words after meeting our daughter: “We need a paternity test.” Sarah’s delicate features apparently didn’t match his expectations, revealing a distrust that ran deeper than I imagined.
While waiting for results, his mother warned she’d “destroy” me if the baby wasn’t his. The irony? The DNA test proved his fatherhood while I discovered messages proving he’d fathered someone else’s heartbreak – his secretary’s, during my third trimester.
Our divorce became final last month. I kept the house where Sarah will grow up knowing she was always wanted, while Alex learns the hard way that trust, once broken, can’t be repaired with a lab report.
