Whose Child Is It?

“That’s not his baby!”—the words ripped through our living room like a tornado, my mother-in-law’s voice trembling with rage. I froze, salad tongs in my hand, the candlelight flickering across her furious face. She’d burst in unannounced, her eyes wild, her coat still on. I’d barely managed a greeting before she hurled that accusation into the air, turning my perfect evening into a nightmare.

“Linda, please, not now,” I stammered, glancing at the clock. Ben was due home any minute, and the salmon was just about done. The ring box I’d found in his jacket pocket earlier that week was hidden in my nightstand, and I’d spent days rehearsing my answer. Yes. Of course, yes—until now.

Linda’s words echoed in my head. “He can’t marry you. Not after what you did.”

I could feel my face flush hot, my hands sweating. “I haven’t done anything. Ben loves me. We’re having a baby.”

She scoffed, her lips curling with disgust. “He deserves better. He deserves the truth.”

The front door opened. Ben’s voice called, “I’m home! Smells amazing in here, babe.”

He walked in, his tie loosened, hair messy from the wind. His smile faded when he saw his mother. “Mom? What are you doing here?”

Linda turned to him, her voice trembling but steady. “Benjamin, she’s lying to you. That baby isn’t yours.”

Ben looked at me—searching, uncertain. My heart pounded in my chest. “Jess?”

“Ben, it’s your baby. I promise you.” I put my hand on my stomach, willing myself not to cry. “I love you.”

He looked between us, confusion and fear battling in his eyes. “Why would she say that?”

Linda stepped closer, lowering her voice. “I saw her with someone. That doctor from the clinic. You know who I’m talking about.”

“Mom, stop it!” Ben snapped, but I could see the doubt creeping in.

I tried to steady my voice. “Dr. Carter is my OB. I had an appointment. That’s all.”

Linda folded her arms, triumphant in her suspicion. “Too many secrets, Jessica. You broke my son’s heart once already.”

Ben shook his head. “Can we talk? Alone?”

Linda shot me one last glare before grabbing her purse and storming out. The door slammed, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Ben turned to me, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me the truth.”

I reached for him, tears spilling down my cheeks. “I love you, Ben. I would never—”

He pulled away, pacing the kitchen. “Was there ever anyone else? Even once?”

I shook my head. “No. Never.”

He stared at me for a long time. The salmon burned in the oven, the candles melted down, and the salad wilted on the table. Finally, he left—without a word, without a glance back.

For three days, I didn’t hear from him. I called, texted, begged for him to come home. My stomach churned with worry, and the nausea I’d blamed on pregnancy grew worse with every passing hour.

On the third night, just as I was about to give up hope, I heard the key in the lock. Ben stepped inside, his face pale, his eyes red-rimmed. He held something in his hand—a small velvet box.

He knelt in front of me, his voice shaking. “I love you, Jess. I want to believe you. I bought this ring because I want to spend my life with you. But I need the truth.”

I sobbed, reaching for his hands. “Ben, you’re the only man I’ve ever loved. This is your child. Please—don’t let your mother ruin us.”

He nodded slowly, opening the box to reveal the ring. “Marry me, Jess. But promise me—we’ll get a paternity test. For both of us.”

My heart broke a little, but I understood. “Okay. If that’s what it takes.”

We scheduled the test together. The wait for the results was excruciating. Each day, Linda texted Ben, fueling his doubts, while I tried to hold onto the pieces of our relationship. At night, I lay awake, wondering when love had become so conditional.

The call came on a rainy Thursday. Ben answered, his hands shaking. The relief on his face told me everything. “It’s mine?” he asked, voice cracking.

I nodded, tears streaming down my face. “It’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

He hugged me, sobbing into my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

But something had changed. The trust we’d built, so carefully, was now broken—cracked by suspicion, by his mother’s poison, by the need for proof.

We postponed the wedding. Ben said he needed time. Linda never apologized. Our daughter was born in February, her eyes the same shade of blue as Ben’s. But every time I looked at him, I saw the doubt that had lingered, the love that had been tested and found wanting.

Now, I wonder: Can love survive when trust is shattered? Or is the damage too deep, the wounds too raw to ever really heal?