Five weeks ago, I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. Sarah. Our Sarah. I thought it would be the happiest day of my life — the culmination of years of love, dreams, and anticipation between my husband Alex and me. We had spent two wonderful years imagining this very moment — what she would look like, how it would feel to hold her. We had whispered about baby names under starlit skies and built a nursery together, painting the walls in soft pastels.
So when Sarah finally arrived — warm, tiny, and perfect — I held her close, believing we were stepping into the most magical chapter of our lives.
And said, “You’re… sure?”
I blinked, not understanding. “Sure about what?”
“That she’s mine.”
His voice was calm — too calm — but the words struck like lightning.
I stared at him, stunned. “Alex… of course she is. Babies change. Their eye color, their hair — nothing’s set in stone.”
But he didn’t soften. His jaw tightened. His voice turned cold.
“I want a paternity test. If you won’t agree, I don’t think we can move forward.”
He said it while I cradled our daughter in the hospital bed. Hours after I’d gone through labor. As if years of love and loyalty could be undone by a single glance at our newborn’s features.
The Loneliest Weeks of My Life
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