When Vera and I finally conceived after years of trying, I was ready to be there for every moment—until she told me she didn’t want me in the delivery room. I was hurt but respected her wish.
Hours later, our daughter was born—and she looked nothing like either of us. Pale skin, golden hair, blue eyes. My heart dropped. But then I saw it: a crescent birthmark on her ankle. The same one I have. The same one my father had.
Vera explained the rare genetics behind it, but doubt still lingered—especially when my family began whispering. My mother even tried scrubbing the birthmark off.
“Let’s do a DNA test,” Vera said calmly, for them—not us.
The results were clear: I was the father.
I gathered my family. They read the proof in silence. My mother wept, asking forgiveness.
Vera, ever gracious, embraced her. “We’re family. Let’s start again.”
And in that moment, holding my daughter’s hand, I finally saw it—not in her features, but in the bond between us.
She was mine. She always had been.
