My baby is only three days old- but I have to prick her little hand for a DNA test because my husband doesn’t trust me…

My baby was only 3 days old. I didn’t even get a chance to name him. Still, the guy I was in bed with and my dreams looked at me like a stranger. He didn’t say much—two cold, heartless words:

“DNA testing.”

And so… I had to take blood from my newborn daughter’s hand to confirm that it was her.

3 days after giving birth. The maternity ward was bathed in a soft golden light. The cries of the newborns rose and fell, accompanied by the footsteps of the nurses and the faint groans of the other young mothers cradling their children.

I held my red, fragile baby to my chest, watching her little face as she slept peacefully. My eyes filled with tears. He’s mine. It’s my flesh and blood. The ultimate summary of a love I once believed would never be broken.

And yet… After only three days, I wasn’t sure if I still had a real family.

Javier—my husband—stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, eyes wide with suspicion.

She did not touch the baby. She didn’t ask how I was doing after a painful birth.

He remained silent, a silence that I couldn’t understand.

I thought he might be in sh0ck, maybe surprised… until I noticed the paper in his hand: a registration form for a DNA test. I froze.

“Javier… What is it?” I asked, my voice trembling.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he quietly pulled out a small glass vial containing isopropyl alcohol, cotton balls, sterile gauze, and a small needle.

And I get it. She wanted to take our baby’s blood for a paternity test.

“Are you crazy? He was only 3 days old! He’s very small. How did you think—”

“Then explain this to me,” putol niya, tumitigas ang boses.

“Why doesn’t he look like me? Her eyes are brown, her hair is soft, doesn’t look like your nose or mine. Do you think I’m too blind to notice?”

I looked at my baby. And then he came back to him.

My eyes widened with tears. A flood of sorrow swept over me, drowning out all causes.

For illustrative purposes only
, I was stunned. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I muttered. “He is your son. You may doubt me—but please don’t hurt him. Don’t let his first wound in life come from a lack of trust in his own father.”

He wasn’t stunned. Instead, he let out a long sigh—as if he had been holding back for too long. “Then prove it.”

I looked at my baby. Her fingers gripped the edge of my sleeping bag. Her face was still innocent in her sleep.

As a mother, I couldn’t bear to see her struggling. But I also couldn’t keep quiet and let toxic doubt swallow up her father.

So my jaw clenched. I disinfected her little finger myself. I didn’t dare to use a needle. I asked the nurse for a suitable children’s lancet to draw blood.

A small drop, a drop of blood was formed. I followed the instructions on the test paper and sucked the drop on the collection card.

“Here,” I said. “Take it. And may you have enough understanding left to accept whatever results you get.”

He picked up the sample. Without a word of consolation. Without even looking at her son. The door closed behind him like a cold, final verdict. I sat there, holding the baby in my arms, my heart empty.

He slept peacefully, not knowing that his father had just taken his blood—not out of concern, but to question whether he deserved recognition.

I cried. Not because of the shame of doubt—but because my three-day-old daughter had already been wounded by the sting of her father’s suspicion.

Three days passed. He didn’t come back. There is no message. There was no call. The maternity ward was just me and my baby—a newborn under a week old, and a mother bleeding inside.

I did everything myself: feeding him, replacing him, cleaning him.

At night, she cried. I sat there for hours under the dark lights of the hospital. At one point I thought I was going to fall.

But every soft breath she took reminded me—”You’ve got to stay there, Mom.”

The day I was discharged, he came back. It’s too late. Silence. In his hand was a sealed envelope—the result of a DNA test. I don’t need to see this. I already know what it said.

But I still asked, “Did you read it?”

He nodded, his eyes drooping. “I… “It was wrong,” he said, his voice cracking, dry from sleepless nights. “He’s mine. 99.999% matched. He is my son… There is no one else.”

I didn’t say anything. Our baby was lying in the crib next to me, his eyes wide open, staring at him—as if he was also trying to read the face of the man called “father.”

“What do you want now?” he asked. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

“But… I want to fix it,” I laughed. It’s bittersweet, it’s bittersweet. “Are you going to fix it? Then force me to punch our newborn? After questioning your husband’s behavior because of a nose that doesn’t look like yours? After leaving me through every painful hour of my recovery, while I was feeding, soothing, and caring for our child alone—that your silence burned my heart?” He didn’t say anything. “Do you realize that my wounds are not in my body, but in the depths of my heart? And what’s worse, our son—is he a man who knows that his father once shed his blood to prove that he deserves to be protected?” He fell to his knees.

It was in the hallway of the hospital. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a child. The man I once loved, once admired for his strength—is now broken in front of me. “Can you forgive me?” he asked. I looked at him. I really looked at him. He is the father of my daughter. But does she still deserve to be called my wife? I answered a question:

“What if the outcome was different? What were you going to do then?” He looked up, surprised. “I… I don’t know. But I have to be sure.” “There you go,” I said. “You’re willing to dump your wife and your daughter based on a doubt that you haven’t confirmed. You choose to doubt over love. It is more than just being a father.” And now… Even if you regret it, the wound is still there.” I didn’t cry anymore, I didn’t cry anymore.

I refused. Instead, I took my son to my parents’ house. Not to keep him away from her—but because he needed time. To heal. To find myself again. And for him to know that love isn’t just blood—it’s trust. Three months later. He visited us on a regular basis. There is no excuse. There was no more anger. Calm down, patient. He learned to hold her, to change her, to rock her to sleep. He recognized her voice, her smell. I watched it all—my heart torn between sadness and peace. One day, she looked at him and muttered her first word: “Daddy.”

She burst into tears. Not from the fun. But from the knowing… that his son had forgiven him before he even asked. I am… I can’t forget. But I can’t forget it either. I want to carry the bitterness forever. So I told him, “You don’t have to apologize. If you really love him, be the father he deserves. And maybe… Someday… I will learn to trust you again. But not now.” Because blood can prove paternity. But it can’t prove love. A family isn’t built on DNA—it’s held together by trust.