‎My husband sought a DNA test and was convinced that our son was not his. When the results were ready, the doctor called and told something dreadful.

 ‎My husband sought a DNA test and was convinced that our son was not his. When the results were ready, the doctor called and told something dreadful.

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‎My husband insisted on a DNA test and was certain that our son was not his: when the results arrived, the doctor called us in and disclosed something devastating.

‎Fifteen years after raising our boy together, my husband suddenly declared:

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‎— I’ve always had doubts. It’s time we did a DNA test.

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‎I laughed at first, since the very idea felt ridiculous. But my laughter quickly vanished when we actually went through with the testing.

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It was on a Tuesday. We were having dinner at home. Suddenly he looked at me with an expression that froze my chest.

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‎— I’ve held this inside too long, — he said, — but I didn’t want to wound you. Our son doesn’t resemble me.

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‎— But he resembles your mother, we’ve talked about this! — I tried to argue.

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‎— Still, I want the test. Otherwise, we’ll divorce.

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‎I adored my husband and cherished our son. I knew my loyalty was unquestionable: I had never been with another man, I loved only him. Yet for his peace of mind, we went to the clinic and provided our samples.

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‎A week later the results were finished. The doctor phoned and urged me to come at once. My palms trembled in the hallway. When I entered, he lifted his head from the file and said gravely:

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‎— You’d better sit down.

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‎— Why, doctor? What’s wrong? — my chest thumped wildly.

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‎And then came the words that shattered my world…

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‎— Your husband is not your son’s biological father.

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‎— That’s impossible! — I almost shouted. — I’ve always been faithful. I’ve never had anyone else!

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‎The doctor exhaled deeply:

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‎— Yes, but the strangest thing is this. You are not his biological mother either.

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‎Everything blurred before my eyes. I could not comprehend it.

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‎— What do you mean? How could that be?

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‎— That is exactly what we need to determine, — he explained. — We’ll repeat the tests to dismiss any error. Then we’ll check the hospital archives.

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‎We repeated the DNA test. The outcome was the same. For two weeks I walked in a haze. My husband kept silent, watching me with mistrust, while I wept at night holding my son tightly.

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‎We began to investigate. We searched through old records, looked for doctors and nurses who had worked back then. Much had disappeared, but piece by piece the truth emerged.

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‎Two months later we learned:

‎In our maternity ward, a swap of infants had indeed happened. Our biological child had been mistakenly given to another family, and we received someone else’s baby.

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‎The worst part was that such incidents had occurred more than once at this hospital. The administration had hidden the errors, but we uncovered proof.

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‎I no longer knew how to live. The son I loved with all my soul was not my flesh and blood. But he was still my child.

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‎My husband needed time to accept it.

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‎And somewhere out there our real child exists — perhaps also being raised by strangers

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