“Their vitals at birth were perfect,” the nurse assured. “But the doctors want to be sure. And… they’ll want to talk to you too.”
As soon as she left, Anna whispered, “What do you think they’re saying out there? They probably think I cheated on you…”
I squeezed her hand. “That doesn’t matter. They’re just trying to figure it out. Same as us.”
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?”
