When my son was born, I should have felt joy. Instead, I felt doubt — a cold suspicion that he didn’t look like me. I asked my wife for a paternity test. When the results came back, I believed I wasn’t his father. I walked out, filed for divorce, and disowned the child.
Three years later, a friend revealed the truth: the test had been wrong. My son was mine all along. I had destroyed my family out of fear and pride.
Now, I watch them from a distance, sending cards and gifts quietly. I don’t expect forgiveness, only a chance to be better.
What I learned: love cannot survive without trust. Doubt can devour everything.
