I stared at the baby girl. Her birthmark should have been proof enough she was mine, but I experienced a rollercoaster of emotions I struggled to juggle with. Elena’s words sounded genuine. I trusted her, and soon, my anger was replaced with feelings stronger than any other, that of love and trust.
When we brought our little bundle of joy home, we knew we would face the judgment of my part of the family, but we never assumed their criticism would be so harsh. Both my mother and brother called me an idiot who was letting his wife fool him, telling me I should face the facts that that baby wasn’t mine.
What’s more, they laughed at the story of the gene Elena carried, saying it wasn’t something real but nonsense.
One night, I heard the door of my daughter’s room open, so I went to check what was going on. It was my mom; she had a damp washcloth in her hands, trying to rub off my baby’s birthmark in order to show me Elena was lying to me. That’s when I realized I had it enough.
I told my mom to leave my home. “Mom, you either accept our baby or get out of our lives,” I yelled at her. Elena was woken up by the screams. She started crying and I apologized for not standing up to her sooner.
“Marcus, for everyone’s peace of mind, I think we should do a DNA test,” Elena said. I knew that we didn’t need to prove anything to anyone, but I agreed.
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