had been awake for almost twenty hours when my son finally entered the world.
The moment he cried, the entire delivery room seemed to exhale with me.
Outside the hospital window, cold March rain slid down the glass in silver streams. Inside, everything smelled like antiseptic, warm blankets, and the overwhelming miracle of new life.
Then the nurse placed him on my chest.
My baby boy.
So tiny. So warm.
His little fists trembled against my skin while his lips quivered beneath the harsh hospital lights. I stared at him through tears I didn’t even realize were falling.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I whispered brokenly. “Hi, Oliver.”
At that moment, nothing else in the world mattered.
Not the pain.
Not the exhaustion.
Not the endless hours of labor.
Just him.
And then I looked for my husband.
Luke stood at the foot of the bed wearing the blue hospital gown they had given him earlier. For nine months, he had talked about this moment nonstop. He painted the nursery himself. Built the crib twice because he thought the first one wasn’t sturdy enough. Every night he rested his hand on my stomach and smiled whenever Oliver kicked.
He was supposed to be crying tears of joy.
Supposed to be reaching for his son.
Instead, he stared at the baby like he was looking at something horrifying.
At first, I thought he was overwhelmed. Some men freeze when they become fathers. Some just need a second for reality to settle in.
But then Luke took a step backward.
And suddenly, the room felt cold.
“Get a DNA test,” he said flatly.
The nurse froze.
My mother slowly lowered her hands from her mouth near the window.
I blinked at him, still dizzy from labor. “What?”
His face didn’t change.
