When I finally got pregnant, I was over the moon. After years of trying, of endless cycles of hope and crushing disappointment, seeing those two lines felt like a miracle. My husband was happy too—happier than I’d ever seen him. He showered me with flowers, brought me my favorite snacks, rubbed my aching feet every night without me even asking. He talked to my belly, his voice soft and tender, whispering promises to our little one. We picked out names, we decorated a nursery, we planned for every single detail. He was supposed to be present during the delivery, holding my hand, sharing that sacred moment. We’d talked about it endlessly. But at the last moment, he felt unwell. A sudden, violent stomach bug, he said. He looked pale, insisted I go without him, told me he was heartbroken to miss it. I understood. I really did. I focused on the contractions, on the overwhelming task ahead. I gave birth alone, exhausted but exhilarated, to the most beautiful little girl I had ever seen. Ten fingers, ten toes, a tiny cry that filled the room and my heart. I was so happy. Truly, incandescently happy. I pulled out my phone, eager to send him a picture, to share our daughter with him.
He arrived a few hours later, looking tired but clean. He walked into the room, a forced smile on his face, a bouquet of generic roses in his hand. He came to the bedside, leaned down to kiss my forehead, then his gaze drifted to the bassinette. He looked at our baby. His baby.
His face went cold. The forced smile vanished, replaced by a contorted grimace. His mouth twisted into a snarl. I saw his eyes narrow, focusing on something I couldn’t yet comprehend. And then he spoke, loudly, his voice raw with disgust, cutting through the quiet joy of the hospital room. “I WON’T LET THIS CHILD BRING SHAME ON ME YOU! MIIST!”
The words hung in the air, a cruel, heavy pendulum swinging back and forth, hitting me again and again. Shame? On him? What was he talking about? My heart, so recently soaring, plummeted to my stomach. I looked at our daughter, sleeping peacefully, so innocent. Then back at him, his face a mask of rage and accusation.
“What are you saying?” I whispered, my voice barely audible. Did I hear him right? He didn’t answer. He just stared at the baby, his eyes filled with a terrifying mix of fury and fear. He turned on his heel and walked out. Just walked out, leaving me there, bleeding and bewildered, clutching my newborn.
The days that followed were a blur of tears and desperate confusion. He wouldn’t touch her. He barely looked at her. He wouldn’t touch me either. When I finally cornered him, demanding an explanation, he exploded. “She’s not mine!” he screamed, his face red. “Look at her! Look at her eyes! Look at that mark! She’s not mine! You CHEATED!”
I hadn’t. I swore on everything holy. I had been faithful, utterly devoted to him. We’d been trying for a baby for so long, this was a dream realized, not a betrayal. How could he think this? What mark? What about her eyes? Our daughter had beautiful, piercing blue eyes, just like mine, and a small, delicate birthmark on her temple, barely noticeable, shaped like a tiny star.
I spent weeks agonizing. I scrutinised her tiny face, searching for some resemblance, some clue. Was there a hidden truth I was missing? Was my memory failing me? Every mirror reflection, every old photograph, became an obsession. Who did she look like? Who did she resemble? She was a perfect blend, I thought, of both of us. But he saw something else. Something damning.
His distance grew. The nursery became a forgotten room. The baby monitor, silent. I was alone, truly alone, with a newborn and a husband who despised her, and by extension, me. The accusation, the cold shoulder, the silent torment—it chipped away at my soul. Why? What could possibly make him believe such a monstrous lie?
One evening, I found him staring at an old photo album. He slammed it shut when he saw me, but not before I caught a glimpse. A faded black and white picture. A young boy, no older than ten, with the same piercing blue eyes as our daughter. And there it was. On his temple. A tiny, star-shaped birthmark. Identical.
My breath hitched. “Who is that?” I asked, my voice trembling. He snatched the album, his knuckles white.
“NO ONE!” he shouted. “It’s nothing!”
But it was everything. I remembered snippets he’d told me, vague references to a half-brother, disowned by his family, banished from their lives due to a scandal. A brother he refused to acknowledge, whose name was never spoken. A source of deep, festering shame for his conservative family, and for him. The same piercing blue eyes. The same unique birthmark.
Suddenly, it all clicked into place. He hadn’t been sick that day. His “illness” was a carefully constructed excuse to miss the birth. He’d seen the baby photos I’d sent the moment she arrived, probably just her face. He’d seen it. The birthmark. The eyes. The undeniable proof. He knew, instinctively, who she resembled. Not me. Not him. But his brother. The one he had eradicated from his memory, from his life.
He didn’t think I had cheated. He thought our daughter was the reincarnation of his deepest, darkest family shame. He thought I had somehow orchestrated it, or perhaps that God himself had brought this child into the world as a cruel reminder of his banished sibling. The “shame on me” wasn’t about my infidelity, but about his past being irrevocably linked to this innocent new life.
And “YOU! MIIST!”? It wasn’t “you must have cheated.” It was, “YOU MUST know what you’ve done by bringing him back!”
The revelation didn’t bring relief. It brought a fresh wave of agony. My baby, so pure and perfect, was merely a mirror reflecting his deepest, most buried trauma. My husband wasn’t accusing me of cheating; he was terrified that his past was now literally staring him in the face, through the eyes of his own child. And I was left holding our daughter, knowing that in his eyes, she was not a miracle, but a curse.
