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.”

on his knee. He was meticulous, his questions probing every corner of my hospital stay. “Did anyone linger in your room? Did any medical attendant behave aggressively or excessively attentive toward the bassinet?”

“I don’t know,” I sobbed, clutching a paper cup of tepid water. “I was heavily medicated. It was a blur of faces and blue scrubs.”

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