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Fifteen years after raising our son together, my husband suddenly demanded a DNA test. I laughed at first, sure it was absurd—but we went anyway.
Over dinner he confessed, “He doesn’t look like me. I want proof… or a divorce.” I loved my husband and adored our boy. I had never been unfaithful. For peace of mind, we gave our samples.
A week later the doctor called us in. My hands shook as I heard the words that shattered my world: “Your husband is not the biological father… and you are not the mother either.”
Tests were repeated. Same result. For weeks I lived in a fog, crying at night while my husband looked at me with suspicion. We launched an investigation, combing old hospital records.
Two months later the truth emerged: a baby swap at the maternity ward. Our real son was given to another family.
The boy I’ve loved all his life isn’t my blood. Yet he is still my child—and somewhere, our biological son is living with strangers.
