I never thought I would have to prove my fidelity to my husband — not through my actions, not through trust, but with paper. With cold letters and numbers that save or destroy.

My mother-in-law stood in front of me, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line.

“We need to be sure. You understand, it’s the family name at stake. And you… you were involved with that… Artyom.”

She said the name of my ex like it was a disease.

I looked at my husband. He didn’t dare meet my eyes.

“It’s not distrust, just… let’s settle this once and for all.”

A burning pain filled my chest.

“Fine. But then you’ll take the test too. To make it fair.”

“That’s going too far.”

“No,” I replied firmly. “If we’re going to test blood, then let’s play on equal terms.”

Three weeks passed. The results arrived, and my mother-in-law triumphantly organized a “family evening.” Everyone was there — my husband’s brothers, aunts, cousins.

“Well,” she began, pulling out the white envelope, “the results are here.”

A theatrical pause — she was savoring the moment.

“According to the paternity test… the boy is indeed my son’s child.”

A heavy silence fell over the room. Someone sighed with relief, another whispered in shock. My mother-in-law herself seemed to falter, sitting down, lips tight. But that wasn’t the end.

I stood up.

“Thank you. Now it’s my turn. I have another result I think everyone will want to hear.”

My mother-in-law jumped up:
“No. Don’t do this. Please.”

“Why? You wanted the truth.”

I opened the envelope.

“The test shows: Igor is not the biological son of Anatoly Viktorovich.”

A funereal silence spread. My father-in-law slowly turned his head toward his wife.

“Wh… what does that mean?”

My mother-in-law lowered her eyes.
“It was a long time ago… I thought you’d never find out…”

My husband stood there speechless, then looked at me.

“You knew?”

“No. I just wanted everything to be honest. All the way to the end.”