I thought it was just a school project — a harmless DNA test. But when my husband refused to participate, I did it behind his back. What I found shattered everything I believed about our family, and forced me to choose between protecting the truth or protecting the man I married.
There are truths you prepare yourself for, and then there are truths that arrive without warning.
The truth hit me the second the DNA results loaded on my screen.
I wasn’t looking for a lie.
I wasn’t hunting for a secret. I wasn’t even trying to prove my husband wrong.
Greg refused to do it.
So I mailed the swab anyway.
The results? They changed everything:
Mother: Match.
Father: 0% DNA Shared.
Biological Parent Match (Donor): 99.9%
I didn’t scream.
I gripped the edge of the desk until my knuckles went white. My body went cold.
Then I saw the name.
Mike.
Not a stranger, not an anonymous donor… and definitely not a faceless mistake.
Mike, my husband’s best friend.
The man who brought beer to Greg’s promotion party. The man who changed Tiffany’s diapers while I cried in the shower during those first months.
And I realized that I was about to do something I never imagined a mother would have to do.
I was about to call the police.
**
Now, I’m standing in my kitchen with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to a woman from the police department.
“Ma’am, if your signature was forged for medical procedures, that’s a criminal offense.
Which clinic handled your IVF?”
I gave her all the details.
“I never signed for an alternative donor,” I said. “Not ever.”
“Then you did the right thing by calling,” she replied. “I’ll call the clinic.”
I screenshot the call log and the results, then set my phone down.
Greg was due home in 20 minutes, and I was done pretending I didn’t already know what happened.
Three Months Earlier
“Tiffany, slow down,” I laughed, catching the edge of her backpack before it toppled a stack of mail.
“You’re like a one-girl tornado!”
She yanked a crumpled kit from the front compartment and waved it like a prize.
“Mom! We’re doing genetics! We have to swab our families and mail it in, like real scientists!”
“Okay, Dr.
Tiffany. Shoes off and wash your hands first, then we’ll see what this is all about.”
She darted off. I was still smiling when Greg came through the door.
“Hey, babe,” I said.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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