After years of infertility, we adopted Sam—a sweet, blue-eyed three-year-old. But the night we brought him home, my husband, Mark, ran from the bathroom, pale as death.
“We must return him!” he gasped.
“What?!” I demanded.
He wouldn’t answer. Panicked. Shaking. Then I saw it—the birthmark on Sam’s foot. The same one Mark had.
A chill ran through me. I confronted Mark, but he brushed it off. The next day, I took DNA samples in secret. Two agonizing weeks later, the results confirmed my worst fear: Mark was Sam’s biological father.
“It was one night,” he confessed. A drunken mistake while I was sobbing through failed fertility treatments.
Rage and heartbreak warred inside me. “You knew the moment you saw him.”
“I was ashamed,” he whispered.
I filed for divorce and full custody. Mark didn’t fight it. Sam was mine, and I refused to let him feel abandoned again.
Years later, Mark stays distant, his choice, not mine. People ask if I regret not leaving sooner. I don’t. Because Sam isn’t just my adopted son—he’s my son. Biology be damned.
