I’ll never forget the way my husband’s face changed when he first saw our daughter. Instead of joy, there was suspicion. “She doesn’t look like me,” Alex muttered, planting the seed of doubt that would grow into our marriage’s undoing.
His demand for a paternity test felt like a knife to the heart, but I had nothing to hide. As we waited for results, his mother called to warn me: “If that baby isn’t my son’s, you’ll regret it.” Her venom shocked me almost as much as Alex’s accusations.
When the results proved his paternity, I expected remorse. Instead, I got a mumbled “sorry” before he retreated to his phone. That’s when I saw them – the messages to his coworker that spanned my entire pregnancy. The dates lined up perfectly with his late “business dinners.”
Six weeks postpartum, I hired a lawyer. By eight weeks, we’d moved into my parents’ guest house. The divorce was finalized before Sarah’s first birthday, with the judge ruling firmly in my favor after seeing evidence of Alex’s affair. Sometimes the tests life gives us aren’t the ones we expect – but they always show us the truth.
