I never wanted to be that guy—the paranoid husband, the one who doubted his own wife. But for years, a small voice in my head whispered, gnawed at me, refused to let me rest.
My wife, Emily, and I had been together for twelve years. We built a life, a home, a family. Three kids—our pride and joy. But every time I looked at our middle son, Liam, I felt something was… off.
Our oldest, James, was my spitting image. So was our youngest, Noah. But Liam? He had none of my features. His hair, his eyes, his entire face—it all screamed *someone else.*
I buried my suspicions for years. I loved Liam. He was my son. But the doubt never faded.
Then, one night, after the kids were asleep, I sat Emily down.
*”I want a paternity test,”* I said, my voice steady but firm.
She blinked at me. *”What?”*
*”I just need to know.”*
Her face twisted, hurt flashing in her eyes. *”How can you even say that?”*
I almost backed down. Almost. But that nagging doubt wouldn’t let me.
*”Please, Em. I just… I need peace of mind.”*
She didn’t argue anymore. She just looked away, nodding stiffly.
A week later, I had the results in my hands. My heart pounded as I opened the envelope.
And in an instant, my world shattered.
**0% probability of paternity.**
Liam wasn’t mine.
The room spun. I felt sick. Twelve years of trust, of marriage, of love—reduced to a single sheet of paper.
I walked into the kitchen, gripping the results so tightly they crumpled in my fist. *”Explain,”* I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Emily looked at the paper, then at me.
Then… she started crying.
But not the guilty, panicked kind of cry. This was something else. Something… *worse.*
*”You knew, didn’t you?”* I murmured.
She nodded.
*”Then why—”* My voice broke.
Her shoulders shook. *”Because, Jake… I thought you did too.”*
I stared at her. *”What the hell are you talking about?”*
Emily wiped her tears, took a deep breath, and whispered the words that changed everything.
*”Liam is your brother’s son.”*