I thought I knew love: walking home hand in hand with Elena, late-night dinners, laughter despite unpaid bills. For years, our dream was simple—becoming parents. But infertility turned hope into heartbreak, each failed month cutting deeper. Then came the miracle. Elena whispered, trembling, “We’re having a baby.” I vowed to be the perfect father—attending appointments, painting the nursery, reading baby books by lamplight.
But weeks before the due date, Elena asked me not to be in the delivery room. Shocked, I agreed, though doubt gnawed at me. When I finally saw our baby, my heart shattered—pale skin, blond hair, blue eyes. She looked nothing like me. Betrayal burst out: “You cheated.”
Elena only whispered, “Look at her ankle.”
There it was: a crescent birthmark, just like mine. Relief and shame hit me at once. She explained the genetics, her fear of my mistrust. Later, whispers spread—family questioned her, even my mother. A DNA test proved the truth: she was mine.
Now, every night, I kiss that little birthmark, reminded that love is trust—and trust is everything.
