My husband insisted on a DNA test and was certain that our son was not his: when the results arrived, the doctor called us in and disclosed something devastating.
Fifteen years after raising our boy together, my husband suddenly declared:
— I’ve always had doubts. It’s time we did a DNA test.
I laughed at first, since the very idea felt ridiculous. But my laughter quickly vanished when we actually went through with the testing.
It was on a Tuesday. We were having dinner at home. Suddenly he looked at me with an expression that froze my chest.
— I’ve held this inside too long, — he said, — but I didn’t want to wound you. Our son doesn’t resemble me.
— But he resembles your mother, we’ve talked about this! — I tried to argue.
— Still, I want the test. Otherwise, we’ll divorce.
I adored my husband and cherished our son. I knew my loyalty was unquestionable: I had never been with another man, I loved only him. Yet for his peace of mind, we went to the clinic and provided our samples.
A week later the results were finished. The doctor phoned and urged me to come at once. My palms trembled in the hallway. When I entered, he lifted his head from the file and said gravely:
— You’d better sit down.
— Why, doctor? What’s wrong? — my chest thumped wildly.
And then came the words that shattered my world…
— Your husband is not your son’s biological father.
— That’s impossible! — I almost shouted. — I’ve always been faithful. I’ve never had anyone else!
The doctor exhaled deeply:
— Yes, but the strangest thing is this. You are not his biological mother either.
Everything blurred before my eyes. I could not comprehend it.
— What do you mean? How could that be?
— That is exactly what we need to determine, — he explained. — We’ll repeat the tests to dismiss any error. Then we’ll check the hospital archives.
We repeated the DNA test. The outcome was the same. For two weeks I walked in a haze. My husband kept silent, watching me with mistrust, while I wept at night holding my son tightly.
We began to investigate. We searched through old records, looked for doctors and nurses who had worked back then. Much had disappeared, but piece by piece the truth emerged.
Two months later we learned:
In our maternity ward, a swap of infants had indeed happened. Our biological child had been mistakenly given to another family, and we received someone else’s baby.
The worst part was that such incidents had occurred more than once at this hospital. The administration had hidden the errors, but we uncovered proof.
I no longer knew how to live. The son I loved with all my soul was not my flesh and blood. But he was still my child.
My husband needed time to accept it.
And somewhere out there our real child exists — perhaps also being raised by strangers.
