After giving birth prematurely, I stayed in the hospital while my husband told me he visited our baby in the NICU daily. He described her in detail, said she had my nose and his dimple.
Two weeks later, I asked to see her—and the nurse looked shocked. No one had been visiting. My husband never even signed the visitation forms.
When I confronted him, he claimed he lied to protect me while I recovered. But his fear ran deeper. He finally admitted he suspected the baby wasn’t his.
A DNA test confirmed it: 0% match.
He had cheated months before I got pregnant. When our baby didn’t look like him, he panicked and lied. I kicked him out that night.
But I never blamed the baby. I named her Maris—”of the sea”—because she became my calm after the storm.
Seven months later, we’re healing. I may not know her biological father, but I know I’m her mother. And that’s enough.
Truth matters. Love is deeper than DNA. And strength comes from showing up—even when your world falls apart. ❤️
