My Husband Forced a DNA Test on Our Newborn— I Wasn’t Ready for What Came Next (2 of 3)

Daniel stood stiff at the end of the bed, a paper clutched in his hand. When I asked, he didn’t answer. Instead, he laid out a kit: alcohol, cotton, sterile gauze, a lancet. My stomach turned.

“She’s three days old,” I whispered. “You can’t do this.”

“Then explain why she looks nothing like me,” he snapped. “Her hair, her eyes, her nose—they don’t match. Am I supposed to ignore that?”

I stared at my baby’s sleeping face, tears clouding my vision. She was innocent, yet already accused.

“Please,” I begged, “don’t let her first wound be from her own father’s doubt.”

But his silence was louder than any scream.

So, with shaking hands, I did it myself. I cleaned her tiny finger, pricked her skin, and watched a droplet of blood form. It felt like betrayal. Not of him—but of her. My three-day-old daughter, already marked by suspicion.

I pressed the blood onto the card, shoved it into his hand, and whispered, “Here. Take it. And may you accept the truth when it comes.”

He left without touching her. Without touching me. The door shut like a final judgment.

For three days, I mothered alone. I fed her, rocked her under the dim hospital lights, wiped her tears with mine. My body was weak, but my love had no choice but to be strong.

When discharge day came, Daniel returned, clutching an envelope. His face was pale, his voice hoarse.