I looked down at my daughter, and something inside me changed—cold and clear.
If Jason wanted a test, he would get one.
And when the results came back, someone would learn a lesson neither of us would forget.
After he stormed out, the hospital staff moved me to a quieter room.
Later a social worker came by and asked gentle but direct questions.
“Do you feel safe? Has he behaved like this before?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to believe Jason was just overwhelmed.
But the truth had been building for months.
He had become obsessed with suspicious “signs.” A coworker joking that babies rarely resemble their fathers. Podcasts about cheating wives. He started checking my phone’s location “for safety,” then getting angry when I asked why.
Still, shouting about DNA tests hours after our daughter was born was something else entirely.
Deliberate.
The next day Jason returned with his brother Eric, wearing a tight smile.
“I’m not accusing you,” he said. “I just want clarity.”
“Clarity is fine,” I replied while holding Lily close. “But we’ll do it properly. Hospital lab. Official chain of custody.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Why make it complicated?”
“I’m being careful.”