My mother-in-law invited all the relatives to expose me and prove that I didn’t have the baby by her son. She had done a DNA test and decided to open the envelope in front of the guests. — According to the paternity test… the boy really is my son’s child, — my mother-in-law announced with a displeased face.
Everyone sighed in relief, and I stood up from my seat:
— Dear relatives, now that we’ve cleared that up, I want to open another envelope. My mother-in-law went pale. — No.
Don’t. Please, — she said quietly, but it was already too late. I opened the envelope and…
I never thought I’d have to prove my husband’s faithfulness — not through actions, not through trust, but through paper.
Through soulless letters and numbers that either save or destroy. My mother-in-law stood in front of me, arms crossed over her chest, lips pressed into a thin line. — We have to be sure.
You see, it’s our family name. And you… you used to date that… Artyom. She pronounced my ex’s name as if he were a curse.
I glanced at my husband. He didn’t look me in the eyes. — It’s not about distrust, just… Let’s close this matter once and for all.
Pain burned in my chest. — Fine. But then you also take the test.
To be fair. — That’s too much. — No, — I was firm.
— If we’re playing blood test, we play fair. Three weeks passed. We got the results, and my mother-in-law proudly organized a “family evening.” Everyone gathered: my husband’s brothers, aunts, cousins.
— Well, — she began, pulling out a white envelope, — the results are in. Pause. Theatrical.
She lingered, enjoying the moment. — According to the paternity test… the boy really is my son’s child. Silence fell over the room.
Someone sighed with relief. Someone whispered in surprise. My mother-in-law seemed to lose her balance, sat down, lips tightly pressed.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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