When I looked at the nursery Emma and I had carefully built for our son, I felt something wasn’t right. Standing there with a paternity kit in my hands, I asked her to take it. She was hurt and confused—but agreed.
Five days later, the result read: 0% probability of paternity. Not my son.
I told her I was filing for divorce. She said quietly, “You’ve already decided who I am.” I left, convinced she’d betrayed me. For three years, I rebuilt my life, believing I’d escaped a lie.
Then a mutual friend told me the lab had made a mistake—mislabeled samples. Emma had proof. Noah was my son. She’d tried to reach me, but I had blocked her.
I took another test.
99.99% probability of paternity.
He had always been mine.
I sent apologies, but Emma never replied. Now I sometimes watch from a distance as she picks Noah up from school. He looks just like me. They seem happy.
I broke my family once. I won’t do it again.