My husband insisted on a DNA test, certain that our son was not his. When the results arrived, the doctor called us in and revealed something devastating.

Fifteen years after raising our boy together, my husband suddenly declared:

—“I’ve always had doubts. It’s time we did a DNA test.”

At first, I laughed. The idea seemed absurd. But my laughter vanished when we actually went through the testing.

It was a Tuesday evening, during dinner. Suddenly, he looked at me with an expression that froze my chest.

—“I’ve held this inside too long,” he said, —“but I didn’t want to wound you. Our son doesn’t resemble me.”

—“But he looks like your mother! We’ve talked about this!” I protested.

—“Still, I want the test. Otherwise, we’ll divorce.”

I adored my husband and cherished our son. I knew my loyalty was unquestionable: I had never been with another man. I loved only him. Yet, to give him peace of mind, we went to the clinic and submitted our samples.

A week later, the doctor called urgently. My palms trembled as I walked through the hallway. When I entered, he lifted his head from the file and said gravely:

—“You’d better sit down.”

—“Why, doctor? What’s wrong?” My chest pounded wildly.

And then came the words that shattered my world…

—“Your husband is not your son’s biological father.”

—“That’s impossible!” I almost shouted. —“I’ve always been faithful! I’ve never been with anyone else!”

The doctor exhaled deeply.

—“Yes… but the strangest part is this: you are not his biological mother either.”

Everything blurred before my eyes. I could not comprehend it.

—“What do you mean? How could that be?”

—“That is exactly what we need to determine,” he explained. —“We’ll repeat the tests to rule out error, then check the hospital archives.”

We repeated the DNA test. The outcome was the same. For two weeks, I drifted in a haze. My husband remained silent, watching me with suspicion, while I wept at night, holding my son tightly.

We began to investigate. Searching old records, tracking down doctors and nurses from that time, we slowly pieced together the truth.

Two months later, we learned the shocking reality:

At our maternity ward, a baby swap had occurred. Our biological child had been mistakenly given to another family, and we had received a different baby.

Worse, such incidents had happened more than once at this hospital. The administration had hidden the errors, but we uncovered proof.

I no longer knew how to live. The son I had loved with all my heart was not my flesh and blood. Yet he was still my child.

My husband needed time to accept the truth.

And somewhere out there, our real child exists — perhaps being raised by strangers, unaware of the life that was meant to be theirs.