For four years, I had loved Julia, and for the past nine months, that love had only grown stronger. From the moment we saw the positive pregnancy test, I was in awe of her—how she lovingly cradled her belly, hummed to our baby, and laughed at my overly serious parenting book sessions. We had always dreamed of becoming parents together.
One evening, Julia said, “We’re going to be those parents who love our kids more than anything,” and I replied, “We’ll try our best.” But she reassured me, saying there was no better father for our child than me.
Throughout her hospital stay, I was by her side, except for quick trips to shower or grab something she needed. Julia’s blood pressure had been dangerously low, so we spent a week there. The nurses joked about my constant presence, especially Maggie, who was like family. But everything changed that night.
I woke up to chaos. Julia was under anesthesia, and Maggie, standing between us, shouted, “Only the baby’s real father can stay!” I was stunned and demanded an explanation, but Maggie kicked me out. My mind raced—could Julia have betrayed me?
When Maggie finally spoke, she broke my heart, telling me Julia had said I wasn’t the baby’s biological father. In disbelief, I called Ryan, my best friend, only to hear him confirm it. “Two years,” he said, admitting to an affair with Julia. My world shattered.
As I held our son for the first time, I felt lost. Could I raise another man’s child? My dad comforted me, revealing that I, too, was adopted. “Love makes a father,” he told me. His words gave me the strength to promise that I would raise Noah with all the love I had.
Weeks later, I received a call from the hospital—Maggie had requested a paternity test, and it turned out Noah was indeed mine. I was overwhelmed with emotion, and for the first time since everything fell apart, I smiled. Noah was mine, and I was his—my son would always come first.
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