Peter and I had been married for three years, expecting our second child, and everything seemed perfect—until I overheard a conversation between his mother and sister. They hinted at a secret Peter had kept from me about our first child, and my world came crashing down.

“Peter, what haven’t you told me about our first baby?” I confronted him. His face turned pale. “My family pressured me to get a paternity test,” he admitted. “They thought our son’s red hair didn’t make sense.” I was stunned. He had taken the test behind my back, and the result said he wasn’t the father.

I was devastated. “You should’ve trusted me,” I cried. “We’ve been raising him together. How could you hide this?” Peter explained how his family pushed him, but he never doubted me. “I didn’t care if the test was wrong—I wanted to be with you,” he confessed.

I walked outside, overwhelmed by the betrayal. But despite everything, I knew Peter wasn’t cruel. He had made a terrible mistake but had stayed by our side.

When I returned, he looked up, his eyes red. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. I knew it would take time to heal, but I wasn’t ready to give up on our family. “We’ll figure it out,” I said.