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.”

“You’re selling them like cattle?”

“Designer genetics,” Marsh sneered, adjusting her grip on the weapon. “Do you have any idea what wealthy, desperate elites will pay for verified, pristine Caucasian and Mediterranean newborns? You two were just convenient incubators. The hospital’s system is so bloated, so heavily reliant on automated biometric scans,continue reading …