When my son Callen was born, my dad became obsessed—in a way that felt more intense than endearing. He rushed to the hospital that morning, barely acknowledged me, and went straight for the baby, emotional and wide-eyed. “He’s perfect,” he kept repeating. “Definitely got our blood.”
At first, it felt sweet. He visited daily, bringing tiny clothes and helping out. I thought maybe he was trying to make up for not being around much when I was younger.
But then the comments started.
“His eyes are pretty light, huh?”
“That nose—doesn’t quite look like ours.”
I brushed it off—babies change. But the remarks didn’t stop.
One day, while handing Callen back to me, Dad said, “Are you sure you’re the father?”
I laughed it off, but he didn’t. He just stared at me.
“Come on, Dad. He’s got my ears,” I said, pointing them out.
But he kept pushing. “His skin’s lighter… and that hair—”
I cut him off, but he wouldn’t let it go. Every visit, more doubts. More subtle jabs.
Then one day, while I was in the kitchen with my wife Katie, I overheard him talking to my uncle Mark in the living room:
“I don’t think this baby looks like Ethan. Maybe we should get a test—just to be sure.”
My heart dropped. “A test? What are you even saying?” I asked, walking in.
Dad looked guilty. Mark was oblivious, making faces at the baby.
“You really think we need a paternity test?” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
