“A father’s doubt tore his family apart—and the regret has followed him ever since.”

The Test That Ended a Family
The nursery walls were painted a soft, hopeful yellow. A white crib stood beneath the window—the same crib Emma and I had assembled together three months before our son arrived. I remembered how she’d laughed while I fumbled with the instructions, how she eventually took over, finishing it effortlessly while I handed her screws and pretended not to sulk. I had thought that was happiness.

Now I stood in that room, our two-week-old baby sleeping quietly in the crib, and felt a cold clarity settle over me. Every certainty I’d built my life on suddenly felt false.

“Marcus?” Emma’s voice came from the doorway. She sounded exhausted, confused. “What’s going on? You’ve been distant all week.”

I turned to face her. The paternity test kit felt heavy in my hands—like both armor and ammunition. She wore the oversized sweater she’d lived in since giving birth, hair tied back without care, dark shadows beneath her eyes from endless nights awake. She looked fragile. Real. Unprepared for what I was about to do.

“I need you to take this,” I said, extending the box.

She didn’t move. Just stared at it, as if it didn’t belong in her world.
“What is that?”