We took our son’s sample quickly. For Adam’s, we waited. We invited his parents over for dinner. His mother, Denise, arrived with a fruit pie. His father smiled, unaware.
Adam handed his dad a new eco-friendly toothbrush, saying it was a sample from work. The test was done and mailed the next day.
Weeks passed. Our son turned one. We hosted a small party with cupcakes and balloons. For a few moments, it felt like a normal life.
And then, I brought out the envelope.
“Since there were questions,” I said, handing it over.
Denise leaned forward, almost eager.
I read it aloud: “He is 100% Adam’s son.”
Her expression faltered. That moment of smug anticipation turned into stunned silence.
But it wasn’t over.
Adam pulled out a second envelope. “And while we were testing…”
He turned to his father. “You’re not my biological dad.”
The room fell completely silent.
Denise’s hand trembled on her wine glass. Her voice finally came, low and defensive.
“You had no right—”
“No,” Adam said, voice firm. “You had no right. You accused my wife of betrayal. And now, you’ve exposed your own.”
His father stood and left. Denise sat in silence, tears forming but unspoken.
