ADVERTISEMENT
And that was it.
We made a quick appointment at a local lab, and I held him while they took a cheek swab. He was too busy trying to eat the technician’s glove to notice anything unusual.
Getting Ben’s father’s DNA was more difficult. We had to get a little creative.
For illustrative purposes only.
We invited his parents over for dinner about a week later. Karen brought her favorite cake and set it on the counter.
Ben’s dad lounged in the living room, talking about his golf game as if nothing was wrong.
When the evening was over, Ben nonchalantly handed his father a toothbrush from some wellness line he was supposedly testing for a company.
“Hey, Dad, try this?” he said. “I’m thinking of selling it through a startup. It’s more environmentally friendly.”
Dad took it to the bathroom and brushed his teeth without a second thought.
When he returned, he said the toothbrush was just like his own. Ben looked at me and told his father to just leave it in the bathroom.
We sent the samples the next day.
Mission accomplished.
A few weeks later, our son turned one. We had a small birthday party, just for immediate family. I decorated the living room with blue and silver balloons.
The cake sat on the dining room table, and we played games until it was time to cut the cake. We all sang and took turns trying to get my son to blow out the candle.
He got tired right after dessert, so I put him to bed.
When I returned, everyone was chatting easily, so I nodded to Ben and pulled an envelope out of the kitchen drawer.
"We have a little surprise for everyone," I said with a smile.
All eyes turned to me.
“Because some people had doubts,” I said, looking directly at Karen, “Ben and I decided to get a DNA test for our son.”
Everyone looked confused, because my son clearly looked like Ben.
But Karen was sitting in the armchair with a smug smile.
I opened the envelope and pulled out the documents.
“And you know what?” I said. “He’s absolutely Ben’s son.”
Karen’s smile vanished.
“But that’s not all,” Ben interjected, getting up from the couch and taking another envelope from his desk drawer.
“Since we were already doing DNA tests,” I explained, “we decided to see if Ben was related to the father.”
Karen paled, her jaw dropping. “What?!”
“It seemed fair,” I said. “Under the circumstances, right?”
The room fell silent as Ben opened the second envelope. We didn't even look. But my husband stared at the paper for much longer than I expected, narrowing his eyes.
"Dad..." he said, swallowing. "It turns out I'm not your son."
Karen stood up so quickly that the chair almost tipped over.
"YOU HAD NO RIGHT..." she screamed, charging at me.
But Ben stepped between us, raising a hand to stop her.
"You accused my wife of cheating on you, Mom," he snapped. "It turns out you were projecting."
Just to illustrate.
Karen looked around at everyone staring at her, then burst into tears and collapsed back into the chair, sobbing.
That was the only sound for a moment, then Ben's dad slowly stood up. He didn't say a word. He simply walked to the table, grabbed his keys, and left.
***
Karen called for a few more days. Mornings, afternoons, sometimes late at night. We didn't answer. I didn't want to hear the crying, the excuses, or whatever version of the truth she was willing to offer.
But the silence wasn't easy either. And now that the DNA thing was over, the real problem was emerging: our marriage.
It wasn't just Karen who hurt me. Ben had asked for a test, too.
He didn't stand up to her. He didn't say, "No, Mom, don't be ridiculous." That hurt the most.
But he felt terrible about it. He apologized more times than I can count, not in a rush or with guilt, but as if he really meant it.
"I don't know what I was thinking," he said one night. "I just... I didn't want to argue with her. I didn't want to believe that
ADVERTISEMENT
