The moment my son entered the world, they placed him gently on my chest. He was warm, impossibly small, and very much alive. His tiny fingers curled instinctively against my skin, and for a brief, perfect second, nothing else existed. The pain of labor faded into the background, replaced by awe, relief, and a love so sudden it took my breath away.
Around us, the delivery room moved with quiet efficiency. Nurses adjusted blankets. A monitor beeped steadily. Someone congratulated us softly. I was exhausted, shaking, overwhelmed in the best possible way.
Ryan stood at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed. He didn’t come closer. He didn’t reach for the baby. He looked at our newborn, let out a crooked little smirk, and said, almost casually, “We should get a DNA test. Just to make sure he’s mine.”
The room froze.
A nurse stopped mid-step. The doctor’s expression hardened. I felt my chest tighten as if all the air had been pulled out at once. Instinctively, I pulled my baby closer, my arms tightening around him as tears rushed to my eyes.
“Ryan,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Why would you say that now? Of all moments?”
He shrugged, as if he’d commented on the weather. “I’m just being careful. These things happen.”
Continue reading…
