My husband demanded a DNA test and was convinced that our son was not his: when the results were ready, the doctor called and revealed something terrible 

Fifteen years after we had raised our son together, my husband suddenly said:

— I’ve always had doubts. It’s time to do a DNA test.

I laughed, because even the thought seemed absurd. But my laughter quickly faded when we actually went to take the tests.

It happened on a Tuesday. We were having dinner together. Suddenly he looked at me in a way that made me freeze inside.

— I’ve wanted to say this for a long time, — he said, — but I didn’t want to hurt you. Our son doesn’t look like me.

— But he looks like your mother, we’ve discussed this! — I tried to object.

— Still. I want the test. Or we’ll get divorced.

I loved my husband deeply and adored our son. I was certain of my fidelity: I had never been with another man, and I loved only him. But for peace of mind, we went to the clinic and gave the samples.

The results were ready in a week. The doctor called and asked me to come immediately. In the hallway, I felt my hands shaking. When I entered, he lifted his eyes from the paper and said seriously:

— You’d better sit down.

— Why, doctor? What’s there? — I felt my heart pounding.

And then came the words that turned my life upside down… 
To be continued in the first comment 

— Your husband is not the biological father of your son.

— But how is that possible?! — I almost screamed. — I’ve always been faithful. I never had anyone else!

The doctor sighed heavily:

— Yes, and the strangest part is something else. You are not the biological mother of this boy either.

Everything went dark before my eyes. I couldn’t believe it.

— What are you saying? How can that be?

— That’s exactly what we need to find out, — said the doctor. — Let’s repeat the tests to rule out an error. Then we’ll try to check the archives and see what happened.

We repeated the tests. The results confirmed the same thing. For two weeks I lived as if in a fog. My husband was silent, looking at me with suspicion, and I cried at night while holding my son.

We began an investigation. We searched for old hospital records, tried to find doctors and nurses who had worked there at the time. Much had been lost, but little by little the picture became clear.

Two months later we were told: in our maternity hospital a baby swap had indeed occurred. Our real child had been mistakenly given to another family, and we were handed someone else’s boy.

The scariest thing was that such cases had already happened at this hospital. The management had tried to cover up the mistakes, but we found evidence.

I didn’t know how to go on. The son I loved with all my heart was not my blood. But he was still my child.

My husband needed time to come to terms with it.

And somewhere in this world our real child is living — and perhaps he too is growing up in a stranger’s family.