My husband looked at the newborn right after the delivery and said with a smirk,
“We need a dna test to be sure it’s mine.”.
When my son was placed on my chest, Ryan barely looked at me. Instead, he said, “We should get a DNA test. Just to make sure he’s mine.”
The words cut through me. I clutched my baby, stunned. Despite my shock, I agreed to the test, wanting the doubt cleared.
Days later, the results arrived. The doctor’s face was pale. “Call the police. The baby is not biologically yours… or Ryan’s.”
It was a mix-up—or worse. Hospital staff reviewed footage, re-tested DNA, and found another mother, Megan, whose baby didn’t match her records.
Then the surveillance revealed it: my mother-in-law, Donna, carried an infant from the ward late at night. Nurse Marsh, on duty that night, was later found with a baby in the parking garage. Ryan had been in contact with her before and after the test.
It wasn’t an accident. It was a choice.
