As a single father, my day started like any other. I took my sick son, Jamie, for his morning doctor’s visit, hoping to get him the care he needed. Little did I know that this simple trip would turn into an emotional rollercoaster.
On the crowded bus, I noticed an elderly woman dressed in colorful attire struggling to pay her fare. Without hesitation, I stepped forward and paid for her ride, much to the annoyance of the bus driver and other passengers. The woman, known as Miss Moonshadow, expressed her gratitude and handed me a folded note as she left.
At first, I didn’t pay much attention to the note, as my mind was consumed with Jamie’s fever and our doctor’s appointment. But as we waited in the quiet of the waiting room, curiosity got the better of me and I unfolded the note. My heart stopped as I read the words written on it: “He’s not your son.”
Those words haunted me, but I tried to dismiss them as nonsense. After all, Jamie was the spitting image of my late wife, Paulina. Or was he? Doubt crept in, and I couldn’t shake off the feeling of uncertainty. Eventually, I gave in and ordered a DNA test. When the results arrived, my worst fear was confirmed: Jamie wasn’t biologically my son.