I stood in my living room, stunned, as my sister-in-law Isabel waved a DNA test at me, accusing me of raising a child from an affair. “She’s not yours,” she said in front of my six-year-old daughter, Ava. I laughed in disbelief, asking if she really thought I’d take a DNA test behind my back.
When Isabel tried to justify herself, I snapped, “Get out of my house!” Ava clung to me, confused, asking if she did something wrong. My heart shattered. I reassured her, holding her close: “No, sweetheart. Aunt Isabel made a mistake.”
Ava’s real parents, my best friends, died in a car crash when she was a baby. With no one else to care for her, I stepped up, adopting her at 24. It wasn’t easy, but I loved her like my own. Isabel and my brother, Ronaldo, didn’t understand, thinking I resented raising her. Isabel, upset by a photo, secretly ran a DNA test without telling me.
When I confronted her, she admitted she’d acted on Ronaldo’s suspicions, believing I was lying. They thought I was “trapped” raising another man’s child. I exploded, furious at the damage they caused, especially to Ava.
Isabel apologized the next day, revealing her fear came from her own childhood trauma. She even considered leaving Ronaldo after learning the truth. But I told her, “Blood doesn’t make a family; love does.”
Ronaldo and I are no longer on speaking terms. As for me and Ava, we’re stronger than ever. She’s my daughter, always and forever. Nothing changes that.
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