“Not to me,” I said quietly. “Not to us.”
But he didn’t apologize. He didn’t backtrack. He didn’t even look embarrassed. He acted as though I were being unreasonable, as though my shock and pain were inconveniences rather than consequences of his words.
The next day, Ryan doubled down.
He asked hospital staff to document his request. He repeated it loudly in the hallway when my mother visited, making sure others heard. When I begged him to wait, to give me time to recover, to let us get home and breathe, he dismissed me with a familiar line.
“If you have nothing to hide,” he said, “why are you upset?”
I agreed to the test.
Not because I owed him proof, but because I wanted his doubt crushed by facts. I wanted this stain on what should have been the happiest moment of my life erased, cleanly and permanently.
They took cheek swabs from all three of us. Me. Ryan. Our newborn, who whimpered softly in my arms, unaware that his very identity was being questioned before he was even a day old.
The lab told us the results would take a few days.
Ryan walked around like he’d won something. He told people he just wanted peace of mind. He smiled too easily. Slept too well. I lay awake at night staring at the bassinet, memorizing every sound my baby made, wondering how the man I married could look at us and see suspicion instead of wonder.
Ryan didn’t come.
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