“You Want a DNA Test? Then So Do I.”
Ben’s mother never liked me. I endured her cold looks and judgment for years, thinking motherhood might thaw her. It didn’t.
When our son was born—his father’s twin in baby form—I hoped things would finally shift. But instead of warmth, Karen vanished. No calls. No visits. Just whispers behind my back.
Then one night, Ben came in, nervous. “Mom thinks we should do a DNA test,” he said. “Dad too.” I waited for him to laugh. He didn’t. He agreed with them.
I stayed calm. “Fine. But we test you and your dad, too.”
We did. Quietly. Carefully.
Weeks later, at our son’s birthday party, I handed out results like party favors. “He’s 100% Ben’s,” I said. Karen’s smile vanished.
Then Ben pulled out the second envelope.
“I’m… not my father’s son,” he said.
Karen lunged at me, screaming. Ben stepped between us. “You accused my wife. But you’re the liar.”
She collapsed, sobbing. Ben’s dad walked out—and filed for divorce days later.
Ben and I went to therapy. It took time, but he earned back my trust.
Karen? Blocked.
But sometimes, late at night, I wonder… what other secrets has she buried?
