I wasn’t angry, just deeply disappointed. But instead of arguing, I agreed to the test on one condition: we would also complete a second DNA test to confirm Adam’s own parentage. If I was expected to prove my honesty, then fairness required that every assumption be treated with the same scrutiny. Adam was stunned, but after a long moment, he nodded. For the first time, he understood the weight of what his family had asked of me.

Both tests were completed quietly, without drama or confrontation. Days passed, then weeks, and soon we were celebrating our son’s first birthday—a small, joyful gathering filled with laughter, warm music, and the gentle chaos of balloons drifting across the floor. As the party wound down, I brought out a sealed envelope and thanked everyone for coming. The room grew still as I explained that, due to concerns that had been raised in the past, the DNA results had arrived. Denise leaned forward, her expression composed but curious. I opened the envelope, took a steady breath, and read the results: Adam was undeniably our son’s biological father. Relief and pride washed through me, and I saw Adam’s shoulders finally relax.