“Please understand, I’m not making accusations—I just need clarity. She doesn’t resemble me at all, and maybe I’m wrong, but I have to be certain.”

Jason had dreaded even considering a paternity test. He wanted to believe with every fiber of his being that the child was his. But each time he looked at his six-month-old daughter, a persistent, unwelcome doubt echoed in his mind—one he could no longer silence. He knew that asking would make him look like the worst kind of man, and he hated himself for it. But pretending everything was fine had become unbearable.

To question your loyalty, your integrity—especially now, so close to marriage—felt like a betrayal in itself. He’d tried to silence the doubt, to believe that you had remained faithful during his long absences, that genetics could simply be unpredictable. He even sought Bruce’s advice and had been chewed for it—understandably, as Bruce had always adored you. But once suspicion takes root, it’s nearly impossible to extract.

And so here he was, standing in the living room of the home you’d built together, shattering your world with a single, devastating request—one that left you speechless and wounded. Still, for the sake of his own sanity, he had to ask.

“If the test confirms that she’s mine—I swear, I’ll do everything I can to make this right. We can find our way back to what we were. But if she’s not mine…”