Five years passed. My son, Noah, grew into a cheerful little boy who loved dinosaurs, building blocks, and bedtime stories. Whenever he asked about his father, I carefully explained that Daniel lived far away. I refused to fill his childhood with bitterness, even though the memories still hurt.
One afternoon, Noah came home from school with a family photograph assignment. He asked whether he could include Daniel’s picture. I agreed, but watching him place the photograph beside his own made my heart ache. That evening, I found the original laboratory report in an old drawer. For the first time, I wondered whether we had trusted the wrong test.
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