Fifteen years after raising our son together, my husband demanded a DNA test, convinced the boy wasn’t his. I laughed at the idea, certain of my fidelity—but still, we went to the clinic.
A week later, the doctor called with shocking news: our son wasn’t biologically his… or mine. Repeated tests confirmed it.
After a painstaking investigation, we learned that a baby swap had occurred at the hospital years ago. Our son—the one we loved deeply—wasn’t ours by blood, and our real child was living elsewhere.
It was devastating, but love didn’t disappear. He was still our child, and we vowed to protect him, while grappling with the mystery of the life we’d been handed.
