After years of waiting, Elena and I were finally going to become parents. But on the day of delivery, she surprised me: she wanted to deliver our baby alone. Though confused, I respected her wish and waited outside.
When the doctor called me in, my heart sank. Elena was holding our baby girl, but she looked nothing like us. “You cheated!” I shouted, convinced the baby couldn’t be mine.
Elena begged me to listen. She pointed to a tiny birthmark on our daughter’s foot—the same one I shared with my brother—and explained she carried a rare recessive gene that could result in light skin and features. Slowly, my anger gave way to love.
My family, however, didn’t believe it. My mother and brother mocked Elena, insisting the baby wasn’t mine. One night, I caught my mother trying to rub off the birthmark. That was the breaking point. I told her to leave: “accept our baby or be out of our lives.”
Through tears, Elena suggested a DNA test. I agreed. The results confirmed the truth—our daughter was ours. When we showed my family, they apologized. In that moment, I knew my family was perfect just as it was.
