He wasn’t moved. Instead, he let out a long breath—as if he’d held back too much for too long. “Then prove it.”

I looked at our baby. Her tiny fingers gripped the hem of my nightgown. Her face still innocent in sleep.

As a mother, I couldn’t bear to see her suffer. But I also couldn’t stay silent and let her father be consumed by a poisonous doubt.

So I clenched my jaw. I disinfected her tiny finger myself. I didn’t dare use the needle. I asked the nurse for a suitable children’s lancet to draw the blood.

A tiny prick, a drop of blood formed. I followed the instructions on the test paper and absorbed the drop onto the collection card.

“Here,” I said. “Take it. And may you have enough sense left to accept whatever result you get.”

He took the sample. Without a single word of comfort. Without even looking at his daughter. The door closed behind him like a cold, final verdict. I sat there, holding the baby in my arms, my heart empty.