Right after delivery, my husband smirked at the newborn: “We need a DNA test to be sure it’s mine.” I held the baby tightly, tears in my eyes, and whispered, “Fine, let’s do it.” Days later, the doctor stared at the lab results with a pale face and said, “Ma’am, call the police right now.”

not to satisfy his bruised ego, but to mathematically obliterate his delusion. I wanted the sterile data to choke him. The technician arrived, swabbing the inside of my cheek, then Ryan’s, and finally, the delicate, crying mouth of the infant I rocked in my arms. The laboratory promised expedited data within seventy-two hours.

On the third afternoon,continue reading …