Karen never liked me. Not when I married her son in a simple courthouse ceremony. Not when I supported Ben through two layoffs. And certainly not after I gave birth to her grandson.
So when she convinced Ben we needed a paternity test, I saw red. But instead of arguing, I agreed—with a twist. “Let’s test your paternity too,” I told Ben.
The plan unfolded like a heist movie. We got our son’s DNA during a doctor’s visit. For Ben’s father, we “accidentally” used his coffee cup after a family dinner.
At our son’s birthday party, we revealed the results. The first test brought vindication—our child was absolutely Ben’s. The second brought chaos—Ben wasn’t his father’s son.
Karen’s shriek could’ve shattered glass. Her perfect facade crumbled in an instant. Ben’s father left without a word, serving divorce papers a week later.
It took months of counseling for Ben and I to recover. But the silver lining? We never had to deal with Karen’s toxic behavior again.
