After our son’s birth, I demanded a paternity test. My wife smirked, “And if he’s not?” I said, “Divorce. I won’t raise another man’s child.” The results: not mine. I divorced, disowned the boy.
Three years later, an old friend looked at me with sorrow. “Why abandon them?” I explained. His face crumpled. “That smirk was shock, not guilt. She never cheated. The lab erred—rare, but real.”
Stunned, I retested. The new results: he is mine. The paper trembled in my hands as truth crashed in. I’d let fear and pride destroy my family. My son lost his father; my wife, her trust.
I begged forgiveness. Too late. She’d rebuilt a quiet life, shielding our boy from my damage. From afar, I watched him laugh, holding her hand. Love demands trust, patience, humility—I had none when it counted.
Doubt screamed louder than truth. Now I live with the wreckage, praying my son one day hears the full story and sees I’m striving to become the father he deserved from day one.
