My life is turned upside down at my husband’s funeral when I encounter an older woman holding a baby. The woman claims the child she is carrying is my late husband’s.
I stood there, staring at the last traces of my husband’s funeral service. I couldn’t believe Patrick was gone. A car accident had taken him from me. It had been a week, but I could still feel him around me. How could he be dead?
With a heavy heart, I headed toward the cemetery’s exit, telling myself I had to start figuring out the rest of my life.
That’s when an older woman stepped in front of me, holding a crying baby.
“Are you Nancy?” she asked.
I blinked at her, confused. I had never seen her before in my life.
“I am. Who are you?” I replied, uneasy.
Then came the blow I wasn’t ready for. The woman—her name was Amanda—told me the baby in her arms was Patrick’s child.
“Only you can look after this child now,” she said.
“Her mother can’t provide for her.”
A chill shot down my spine. I stared at the baby, backing away.
“No, it can’t be! Patrick was a loving husband. He would never do this to me!”
I turned and walked away. I refused to believe it. I would never doubt Patrick.
“Watch out!”
I bumped into someone—Mike, one of Patrick’s old friends. I was so lost in thought, I didn’t even see him.
He offered his condolences, started chatting. I didn’t want to talk, but I forced myself to be polite, kept it brief, then made my way to my car.
I couldn’t stop thinking about what Amanda had said, but I brushed it off. Yet, when I opened the car door, I froze.
The baby was in my back seat. Crying.
I looked around. Amanda was gone.
“How did this baby even get here?” I whispered.
It was cold. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around the little one.
Then I saw it—a small birthmark on her neck. My heart skipped a beat.
“It can’t be,” I murmured.
The birthmark was just like Patrick’s.
I didn’t want to suspect him of cheating. But I needed the truth.
I drove home, took a few strands of Patrick’s hair from his hairbrush, and headed to the hospital.
“Hello, I’d like to get a paternity test done,” I told the receptionist.
“It normally takes a few days to get results,” she said.
“Can it be done quicker?” I asked. “I’ll pay extra.”
She said they had expedited service—it would cost more.
“I’ll take it,” I said, handing over the samples and making the payment.
I sat in the hallway, waiting, the baby in my arms. She started crying again. I checked—her diaper was fine. She must have been hungry.
There was still time before the results, so I rushed to a supermarket, bought formula, bottles, and diapers—just in case.
Back in the hospital, I fed her. Then, finally, a nurse handed me the results.
“This is the truth, and I’ll have to accept it whether I like it or not,” I told myself as I opened the envelope.
My head spun: “Paternity rate – 99%.”
I stared at the baby sleeping in my arms, tears threatening to spill. Patrick had cheated on me and kept it from me.
I couldn’t live with this reminder of betrayal forever. I had to return the baby to her mother.
I drove home and started going through Patrick’s things, searching for anything that might lead me to his lover. Nothing.
I moved to his office. Still nothing.
I sighed. The baby was sleeping in the living room. I grabbed the baby monitor and went out to Patrick’s car.
I searched everywhere—under the seats, glove compartment, every corner.
Nothing.
And then, I saw the GPS.
Patrick was hopeless with directions. He always used the navigator. If he had ever gone to her house, her address would be in there.
I opened the recent destinations. Most were familiar places: restaurants, the hardware store, his office. But one address showed up repeatedly. I didn’t recognize it.
“This is it,” I thought. I picked up the baby and drove there.
It was a modest house. I walked to the door, baby in arms, and knocked.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
I knocked again and again. No answer.
I looked around, walked to the house next door, and rang the bell.
The door creaked open.
Amanda stood there.
“You?” I asked, shocked.
“How…how did you find me?” she stammered.
“I was looking for my husband’s… his other woman. I wanted to return her baby.”
Amanda’s face fell. “The woman who lived next door died a few days ago. Heart attack. Right after she heard about your husband’s accident. Emma is no more.”
I gasped. “Wait… did you say Emma?”
“Yes,” Amanda said. “Do you know her?”
“Was her last name… Warren?”
Amanda nodded.
I lowered my head. “Can I come in? I think I need to talk to someone.”
Amanda let me in. We sat in her living room, the baby curled against me.
“Emma was my classmate,” I began. “And my friend. But I wronged her. And Patrick…”
Twenty years ago…
Patrick and I were in our school hallway. I was at my locker when he approached me.
“Hey, Nancy,” he said nervously.
“Yes?” I smiled.
“I’m in love with someone else,” he said. “I know you’ve been kind, but I’m sorry.”
I was stunned. “Tell me it’s a joke, Patrick. You can’t be serious!”
But he was. He was in love with Emma. And Emma loved him.
I went home crying. My mom asked what was wrong.
“Patrick broke up with me,” I sobbed. “I want to break them up! I won’t let them be together!”
“Nancy,” she said gently, “you won’t find happiness by destroying someone else’s.”
But I was consumed by revenge.
I tried everything—rumors, fake confidence, anonymous notes. Nothing worked.
Then I had the perfect idea.
I went to Patrick’s house and told him I was pregnant.
He was shocked, terrified. But he believed me. He promised to take responsibility. I told him not to tell anyone—I said my father would force me to get rid of it.
He agreed. He was always responsible like that.
Of course, I wasn’t pregnant. It was a lie. A desperate lie from a broken heart.
After a few months, I told him the doctor had made a mistake. By then, Emma had left town. Patrick and I stayed together. He never went looking for her. We just… moved on.
But clearly, he had found his way back to her.
Present-day…
“I used him. I lied to him,” I told Amanda, tears in my eyes. “He left her because of me.”
“Lies ruin everything,” Amanda said. “Did he never find out?”
“No,” I whispered. “I kept it going. But it’s time I make it right.”
I stood to leave. Amanda followed me to the door.
“What are you going to do with the baby?” she asked.
I turned and looked her in the eyes. “I’ll raise her as my own. Maybe that’s how I find forgiveness—from Patrick and from Emma.”
And I did. I raised baby Catherine with all the love in my heart.
When she turned sixteen, I told her everything.
I was ready for her to hate me.
But she smiled and said, “Nothing changes how I feel about you, Mom. You raised me. You were there for every scraped knee, every heartbreak. You’re my mom in every way that counts.”
I cried silently and held her close. In that moment, I felt—just maybe—Patrick and Emma had forgiven me too.
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This piece is inspired by stories from the everyday lives of our readers and written by a professional writer. Any resemblance to actual names or locations is purely coincidental. All images are for illustration purposes only.