One evening, after putting the baby to sleep, Adam sat beside me. His face was drawn, voice quiet.
“My parents… they want a DNA test.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“They read some article about… false paternity. They just want clarity.”
Clarity. As if our son’s very existence was a question mark in their minds.
“Do you think we should?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
Adam hesitated. That hesitation cut deeper than words ever could.
“It couldn’t hurt,” he said. “Just to settle things.”
No shouting. No tears. I kept my voice steady. “Fine. But only if we do another test too.”
He looked confused. “Another one?”
“For you,” I said. “To find out if your father is really your father.”
The silence between us was heavy. Then, slowly, Adam nodded.
