Waiting for DNA results was torture. Anna barely spoke, flinching when I reached for her.
When I called my mom to share the news, her voice dropped: “You’re sure they’re both yours, Henry?”
My chest tightened. “Mom—Anna’s not lying. They’re mine.”
By evening, the doctor returned.
“Your DNA results are back. Henry, you are the biological father of both twins. This is rare, but not impossible.”
Anna sobbed with relief. I finally breathed. Everything was right there, in black and white.
But nothing was simple after that.
At the grocery store, the cashier glanced at our boys. “Twins, huh? They sure don’t look alike.”
At daycare, another mom leaned in. “Which one’s yours?”
Anna forced a laugh. “Both of them. Genetics does what it wants, I guess.”
But late at night, I’d find her sitting in the boys’ room, watching them breathe.
“Do you think your family believes me?” she whispered.
“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” I told her.