When Vera and I learned we were expecting, it felt like a long-awaited dream finally coming true. But just weeks before her due date, Vera asked me not to be in the delivery room. Though hurt, I respected her wishes, trusting she had her reasons.

When our daughter was born, joy quickly turned to confusion. She had pale skin, golden hair, and piercing blue eyes—features neither Vera nor I shared. I tried to silence the doubts, especially when Vera pointed out the birthmark we both carried, passed down from my father.

Vera explained that rare recessive genes from both sides could explain our daughter’s appearance. Still, my family whispered cruel suspicions. The worst moment came when I found my mother trying to scrub the birthmark off, convinced it was fake. That’s when I drew a line—if she couldn’t accept my child, she couldn’t be in our lives.

Even I battled quiet doubts, until Vera suggested a DNA test—not for her, but for peace. The results confirmed I was the father.

Sharing them with my family brought apologies. Vera forgave them. Holding my daughter’s hand, I finally understood: love and truth aren’t always obvious, but they’re always worth standing for.