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.”

A name symbolizing bravery.

Megan and I remained inextricably linked. Our trauma bonded us tighter than blood. We celebrated the children’s first birthdays together, watching them stumble across the grass in a local park, marveling at the miracle of their presence. We had walked through the fire, and we had dragged our children out of the ashes.

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