Then he said it. He wanted a DNA test. The words didn’t register at first.
Then they hit me all at once. I asked him to repeat himself. He doubled down, accusing me of being defensive, implying that my stress during fertility treatments and his work travel somehow justified his suspicion.
I felt something inside me shatter. I reminded him of everything we had been through. The appointments.
The tears. The dreams. The crib we built together.
He crossed his arms and told me I wouldn’t react this way if I had nothing to hide. That was the moment I realized the man I loved was gone. He left the room and returned to his friends, laughing as if nothing had happened.
I sat alone in bed, my hands wrapped protectively around my belly, trying to understand how love could turn into distrust so quickly. Later that night, I told him that if he truly believed our baby wasn’t his, then there was no marriage left to save. He shrugged and said it didn’t matter anymore.
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