Inside she finds three sealed DNA reports — mine, my husband’s, and his “dad’s.”
I’d ordered them months ago when she first started accusing me, because something in the way she spoke made me suspect she was hiding something big.
The top page is highlighted in yellow: Probability of paternity between Husband and “Father” — 0%.
Her face turns from smug to ashen in seconds. My husband snatches the paper, reads it twice, then looks at her in total shock.
“Mom… is this true?” he asks.
She starts stuttering — something about “a mistake in the lab” and “old history” — but I cut in:
“You wanted to use DNA to destroy my marriage. But the only thing you destroyed today is your own secret.”
She drops the envelope she brought, grabs her bag, and storms out. My husband doesn’t follow her — he just sits there in stunned silence, holding proof that the man who raised him isn’t his biological father.
That was the last time she ever tried to accuse me of cheating. And the last time she underestimated me.
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