Caleb and I had been together for fifteen years. I met him at university, at a party, and immediately knew he was the man of my life. I built a family with him. On Lucas’s birthday, Caleb cried with happiness like never before. He was an exemplary father from the very first moment.
But his mother, Helen, kept saying that Lucas didn’t look like him: blond hair, blue eyes — not at all like his father. She insisted so much that she finally demanded a DNA test. Caleb refused, confident in my fidelity. But she didn’t give up.
Two weeks later, I found Caleb in tears with a piece of paper in his hands. Helen had secretly sent samples: the result was ‘paternity excluded.’ Caleb, devastated, left home.
I knew it was a lie, but how could I prove it? That night, Lucas asked me when his father would be back. I didn’t know what to say.
The next day, I decided to take the test myself, using my own samples. A week later, the results came back…
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A week later, the results came back.
Probability of maternity: 0%.
My heart stopped. It was absurd. Impossible. I carried Lucas for nine months, suffered for sixteen hours in the delivery room. How could I not be his mother?
With trembling hands, I printed out the report and ran to Helen’s house.
Caleb opened the door, pale.
‘Claire, I told you…’
‘Look!’ I waved the paper. ‘This test says Lucas isn’t even my son!’
He turned pale. Anger gave way to fear.
‘Do you understand what this means?’
‘Yes. That this laboratory is completely incompetent!’
He shook his head.
‘I did another test at a different lab. Same result.’
His words paralysed me.
‘So… Lucas isn’t our biological child?’
The truth hit me like a hammer. The only explanation… there must have been a mix-up in the maternity ward.
We rushed to the hospital. After a long silence, the head doctor came out to us, his face serious.
‘Only one woman gave birth at the same time as you, also a boy. I think your biological son is with her.’
Caleb jumped up:
‘You mixed up our children?!’
The doctor lowered his eyes, ashamed.
‘I’m sorry. You can take legal action.’
But the thought of compensation seemed absurd. How could I replace four years with the child I called my son?
We were given the contact details of another family: Rachel and Thomas. Their son: Evan. Ours.
That night, Lucas slept between us. I breathed in his scent, pressing his little body close to me.
‘He’s still ours, right?’ I whispered.
‘Always,’ Caleb replied. ‘No one will take him away from us.’
The next day, we met up with Rachel and Thomas. Evan was with them. And at that moment, I saw Caleb in miniature: the same dark eyes, the same features.
Lucas and Evan, however, began to play together as if they had known each other all their lives.
With tears in her eyes, Rachel confessed:
‘We had our doubts. But we never wanted to believe them. After your call, we did the test… and everything became clear.’
We looked at each other in silence, united in pain.
‘We don’t want to lose Lucas,’ I said hoarsely.
‘And we don’t want to take Evan away from you,’ Thomas replied. ‘But the boys need to know the truth. Maybe one day they’ll understand that they had two families who loved them.’
I watched Lucas and Evan laugh together. And despite the chaos in my heart, I felt a strange sense of peace.
Because they were right: love is not defined by blood. Lucas was still my son. And now Evan was part of our family too.
We couldn’t rewrite the past. But perhaps we could give both boys a future full of truth and love.
