I had loved Julia for four years, and in the past nine months, that love grew even more. From the moment we found out she was pregnant, I admired her: the way she sang to our baby, laughed over silly things, and joked about her pregnancy cravings. We were about to begin our journey as parents, and everything felt perfect.
But things took a sudden turn when, during our hospital stay, something went wrong. Julia’s blood pressure dropped dangerously low, and she was rushed into surgery. I was kicked out of the delivery room by Maggie, a nurse who had always been like family. Then I learned the devastating news: Julia died, but our baby survived.
I was told by Maggie that Julia had mentioned I wasn’t the baby’s biological father. My world shattered. I tried to reach out to Ryan, my best friend, only to learn that he and Julia had been having an affair. He admitted it had been two years.
Confused and lost, I held our son, Noah, for the first time. Despite the betrayal, I promised to raise him. Then, my father revealed that I wasn’t his biological son either — my mother and he had adopted me. Blood doesn’t make a father, love does.
After burying Julia, I received a call from the hospital with news that changed everything again: the paternity test confirmed I was Noah’s father. I had been ready to raise another man’s child, but Noah was mine. He always had been. And I would be the father he needed.
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