…convinced it was some twisted prank. Some random old woman pretending to be psychic, preying on a tired, grieving father.
But something about it gnawed at me.
I stared at Jamie—his delicate lashes, the way his fingers clutched the blanket, his mother’s favorite color. He looked so much like Paulina… didn’t he?
That night, after the doctor confirmed the fever was just a virus, we went home. I fed Jamie, held him close, read him our usual bedtime book. But the note—it pulsed in my pocket like it was alive.
I went to the drawer in my bedroom, pulled out the hospital paperwork from the day he was born. Everything looked normal. But my hands moved almost of their own accord. I searched online for a discreet DNA testing service.
A week later, the kit arrived.
I told myself I was just being paranoid. That grief and exhaustion were making me imagine things. That some woman with bangles and mystery eyes couldn’t possibly know more about my life than I did.
But I did the test. I swabbed his cheek, sent it off, and tried to forget about it.
Four days later, I got the results.
0% match. No biological relation.
I froze. The paper dropped from my hand like it burned.
How? HOW?
I called the hospital, shaking, demanding records, explanations—anything.
And then the truth unraveled: a quiet investigation that had been buried. Two babies born minutes apart. One nurse suspended, then quietly fired.
A mistake. A horrible, life-altering mistake.
Jamie wasn’t biologically mine.
But as I looked at him sleeping that night, still clutching that pacifier, something inside me whispered louder than the DNA test:
He’s still my son.
And I made a decision: I would find his real parents. But no matter what, Jamie would always be mine.
Because biology doesn’t make a father—love does.
