After years of waiting, Elena and I were finally going to be parents. I couldn’t wait to hold our baby, but when that day came, I was shocked.
“Honey,” Elena said, “I think I want to be alone in the delivery room.”
I didn’t expect that. Why wouldn’t she want me there? But she said she needed to be alone, so I agreed. A few days later, we went to the hospital. I kissed Elena and waited.
Finally, the doctor came out. His face said something was wrong. My heart raced as I rushed to Elena’s room.
When I saw her, I was relieved she was fine. But she had our baby in her arms, and her usual smile was gone. The baby had pale skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. My heart dropped. “YOU CHEATED!” I yelled.
“Marcus, I can explain,” Elena said, trying to reach for me.
Both of us are black, and our baby was white. Elena insisted the baby was ours, but I couldn’t understand. “Don’t lie to me, Elena, this couldn’t be my baby,” I screamed.
The nurses tried to calm the situation, but I was devastated.
“Marcus, look at this,” Elena said, showing me a small birthmark on the baby’s foot. It was the same birthmark my brother and I have.
Then Elena told me something she should have said earlier: she carried a rare gene that could cause a child to have light features, even if both parents are dark-skinned. She hadn’t told me because she thought it was unlikely.
The birthmark should have been proof, but I was still confused. Elena’s words sounded real, and my anger turned to love and trust.
When we brought our baby home, my family judged us. My mom and brother said I was fooling myself. One night, I caught my mom trying to rub the birthmark off the baby’s foot. I had enough.
I told my mom to leave. “Either accept our baby or get out of our lives.”
Elena suggested a DNA test. I agreed. The results showed the baby was mine.
My family apologized, and I felt at peace. My family may be different, but it’s ours, and it’s perfect.
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