My Husband and His Parents Demanded a DNA Test for Our Son I Said Yes, But My Conditions Turned the Tables
I never imagined the man I adoredthe father of my babywould ever stare me down and question whether our child was really his. Yet there I was, perched on our cream sofa, clutching our little boy while my husband and his parents hurled accusations like darts at a pub board.
It started with a glance. When my mother-in-law, Margaret, first laid eyes on Oliver in the hospital, she scrunched her nose. Whispering to my husband, James, while I pretended to doze, she muttered, “He doesnt look like a Prescott.” I played deaf, but her words stung worse than my stitches.
At first, James brushed it off. We joked about how newborns morph daily, how Oliver had my cheekbones and Jamess ears. But that tiny seed of doubt took root, and Margaret watered it with snide remarks at every Sunday roast.
“Funny,” shed say, holding Oliver up like a questionable pint, “James had such fair hair as a babe. Olivers is nearly black. Odd, isnt it?”
One evening, when Oliver was four months old, James slunk in late from work. I was sprawled on the sofa, feeding the baby, my hair a birds nest, exhaustion clinging like a soggy jumper. He didnt even peck my cheek. Just loomed there, arms folded like a bouncer.
“We need a chat,” he announced.
I couldve written his next line myself.
“Mum and Dad reckon we ought to do a DNA test. Just to put minds at rest.”
“Put minds at rest?” I croaked, my voice sandpaper-rough. “You think Ive been playing away?”
James shuffled his feet. “Course not, Sophie. But theyre rattled. I just want this sortedfor everyone.”
My stomach lurched. For everyone. Not for me. Not for Oliver. For them.
“Right,” I said after a pause thick enough to spread on toast, blinking back tears. “You want a test? Fine. But I want something back.”
James frowned. “Like what?”
“If I endure this nonsense, you swearhere, now, in front of your folksthat if the results say what I know they will, anyone who still side-eyes me gets the boot. Permanently.”
James hesitated. Behind him, Margaret stiffened, arms crossed, lips pursed like shed bitten a lemon.
“And if I say no?”
I met his gaze, feeling Olivers warm breaths against my collarbone. “Then pack your bags. All of you.”
The silence couldve choked a horse. Margaret opened her mouthno doubt to liken me to a EastEnders villainbut James shot her a look. He knew I wasnt bluffing. Knew Oliver was his son, his spitting image if hed just stop squinting through his mums fog of suspicion.
“Alright,” James sighed, ruffling his hair. “Well do the test. And if its what you say, thats the end of it. No more sly digs.”
Margaret looked fit to burst. “This is absurd! If shes got nothing to”
“Oh, Ive got nothing,” I cut in. “But youve got a whole trunk of spite and meddling. It stops the second that test lands. Or youll be seeing Oliver in Christmas cards. From a distance.”
James flinched but stayed quiet.
Two days later, a nurse swabbed Olivers tiny mouth while he whimpered. James did his, jaw tight. That night, I cradled Oliver, whispering nonsense apologies into his downy head.
I didnt sleep. James snored on the sofa. I couldnt stomach him in our bed while he doubted our child.
When the results arrived, James read them first. His knees hit the carpet like a sack of spuds. “Sophie Christ, Im”
“Dont apologise to me,” I said coolly, scooping Oliver onto my hip. “Apologise to him. And to yourself. Because youve gone and broken something precious.”
But the war wasnt won. The test was just round one.
James knelt there, clutching the paper proof of what any fool with eyes could see. His eyes were red-rimmed, but I felt nothingjust a hollow where trust used to live.
Behind him, Margaret and my father-in-law, Reginald, stood like statues. Margarets mouth was a razor-thin line. She couldnt even look at me. Lovely.
“You promised,” I said softly, bouncing Oliver, who giggled, blissfully clueless. “If the test cleared my name, the doubters get the chop.”
James gulped. “Sophie, come on. Shes my mum. She only”
“Only what?” I barked, making Oliver startle. I kissed his forehead. “Only poisoned you against your own family? Called me a liar over nothing but her own nasty little hunch?”
Margaret stepped forward, quivering like an offended teapot. “Really, Sophie, must you be so theatrical? We only did what”
“No,” I snapped. “Decent families dont demand paternity tests like theyre ordering a takeaway. You wanted proof? Here it is. Now heres what youll get.”
James blinked. “What dyou mean?”
I took a breath, Olivers heartbeat thumping against mine. “I want them gone. Today.”
Margaret gasped. Reginald choked on his own spit. James went pale. “What? Sophie, you cantthis is our”
“No,” I said. “This is Olivers home. Mine and his. And you lot cracked the foundation. You dont get to raise him in a house where his mums treated like a suspect on Midsomer Murders.”
James stood, guilt flipping to anger like a dodgy pancake. “Be reasonable”
“I was reasonable,” I shot back. “When I let you swab our baby. When I ignored your mums jabs about my Yorkshire pudding. I was a saint letting her through the door at all.”
I hoisted Oliver higher. “But Im fresh out of patience. Stay if you want. But they go. Now. Or you all do.”
Margarets shriek couldve shattered glass. “James! Youre letting her do this? Your own mother”
James looked at me, at Oliver, at his shoes. For once, he seemed about twelve years old. He turned to his parents. “Mum. Dad. Best you head off.”
Margarets face did a spectacular impression of a deflating balloon. Reginald grabbed their coats, muttering half-arsed apologies. Margaret flounced out without a word. When the door clicked shut, the air felt cleaner, like someone had finally opened a window.
James sank onto the sofa, staring at his hands. “Sophie Im a prat. I shouldve”
“Yep,” I agreed. “You shouldve.”
He reached for my hand. I let him hold itfor exactly three secondsthen tugged free. “James, I dont know if I can forget this. You didnt just doubt me. You doubted him.”
His eyes got suspiciously shiny. “Tell me how to fix it.”
I glanced down at Oliver, who was gumming my jumper. “Start by proving you mean it. Be the dad he needs. Be the man I marriedif you still want to be. And if you ever let them near us without my say-so, youll be getting divorce papers with your morning tea. Clear?”
James nodded, shoulders slumped. “Crystal.”
The weeks that followed were different. Margaret calledsometimes weeping, sometimes hissing like a kettle. We didnt answer. James came home early, took Oliver to the park, even attempted shepherds pie without burning it. He looked at our son like he was seeing him properly for the first time.
Trust isnt a Lego toweryou cant just snap it back together. Some nights I still lie awake, wondering if Ill ever look at James without that icy pinch in my chest. But then Ill catch him making Oliver laugh by doing that ridiculous gorilla impression, and I think maybe well get there.
Were not picture-perfect. But were ours. And for now, thatll do.
