After our son was born, I demanded a paternity test. My wife gave a nervous smirk and asked, “And what if he’s not?” I replied coldly, “Then I’ll divorce you. I won’t raise another man’s child.” When the results came back saying the baby wasn’t mine, I walked away without hesitation.
I filed for divorce, disowned the child, and never looked back.
Three years later, I ran into an old family friend. When I explained why I’d left, his face fell. He told me my wife had never cheated. That smirk I thought was arrogance had been shock and fear. The test, he said, could have been wrong.
Panicked, I ordered another DNA test.
When the results arrived, my hands shook. The boy was mine.
The truth hit me all at once. I had destroyed my family because of my own mistrust. Pride and fear had blinded me, and I had abandoned the people who loved me most.
I reached out to her, begging for forgiveness, trying to undo what I had done.
But it was too late.
She had rebuilt her life and protected our son from the pain I caused. Her silence said everything.
One day, I saw them from across the street. My son laughed as he held her hand, and in that moment I understood what I had lost.
Love cannot survive without trust.
And every day since, I live with the cost of my doubt.
