The moment our daughter was born, time stopped. Her cries filled the room, her tiny body squirming in the doctor’s hands. I grinned through tears—until Emma’s voice shattered the joy.
“This isn’t possible.”
Confusion rippled through the room. Emma’s face was pale, her grip on my hand bone-tight. “She’s Black,” she whispered. “How?”
I looked at our baby. Yes, her skin was darker. But her eyes? My mother’s. Her lips? Emma’s. She was ours in every way that mattered.
“Biology’s full of surprises,” I said, kissing Emma’s temple. “But she’s ours.”
Emma’s fear didn’t fade overnight. She wrestled with guilt, with confusion, until the DNA test revealed the truth: generations ago, her family tree had roots she never knew.
The relief was palpable. “I’m sorry I panicked,” she murmured, cradling our daughter.
“You were scared,” I said. “But look at her now—perfect.”
As she grew, the world noticed her differences. “Adopted?” strangers asked. Emma, once hesitant, now smiled. “No. She’s ours.”
One evening, our daughter traced her arm, then Emma’s. “Why am I brown?”
Emma hugged her. “Because you’re a masterpiece—mixed from all the love in our history.”
That night, Emma sighed against my shoulder. “Remember when I was scared?”
I chuckled. “And now you’re her fiercest protector.”
Because love doesn’t come in one shade. It’s the glue that holds us together.
