“My son is not the father of your child!” screamed my mother-in-law, demanding a DNA test. She froze when the results proved she wasnt the mother of her own son.
“Here,” Margaret Thompson tossed a folded leaflet onto the table. “Read this in your spare time.”
The glossy page revealed a smiling couple with a baby and a bold headline: “Genetic Testing Centre. Accuracy: 99.9%.”
My husband, Edward, sighed heavily and pushed away his half-eaten dinner. He stared anywhere but at me or his mother.
“Mum, we agreed,” he said quietly, almost pleading.
Margaret ignored him entirely. Her entire posturetight lips, sharp gazewas fixed on me, as if searching for a crack in my defenses.
“I just want the truth, Emily. For the sake of the family.”
Her words sounded gentle, but there was a threat beneath them.
I clenched my fingers under the table. The month since little Oliver was born had been hell, all because of my mother-in-laws suspicions.
I remembered how, at our wedding, she had raised her glass and toasted to “the importance of good blood and breeding.” Back then, I dismissed it as old-fashioned nonsense. Now, I understoodit was her lifes creed.
First came the hintssideways glances at the babys hair colour, questions about my “wild youth.” Now, she had launched a full attack.
“What truth, Margaret?” I kept my voice steady. “Heres your grandson. The spitting image of Edward.”
“A spitting image?” She scoffed. “I dont see it. My son cannot be the father of your child!”
She said it softly, but with such icy certainty that the air in the kitchen thickened. Edward flinched, finally tearing his eyes from the wall.
“Mum! What are you saying? Stop this now!”
“You stay quiet!” she snapped. “Youve been fooled, and youre happy about it! Raising another mans brat!”
I stood. My legs barely held me, but sitting was unbearable. I felt like a defendant in a sham trial.
“If youre so sure why bother with the test?” I met her gaze squarely.
It was a gamble. I hoped shed back down. Instead, her lips stretched into a predatory smile.
“So you have no escape. So everyone sees you for what you are. So my son finally wakes up.”
She looked at me with open contempt. To her, I wasnt a daughter-in-law or the mother of her grandchildjust dirt to be scrubbed from her “perfect” family.
Something inside me shifted then. Fear gave way to something cold, sharp, and clear.
I glanced at my husband. He sat with his head bowed, crushed under her authority. He hadnt defended me. He hadnt defended our son.
“Fine,” I said, so calmly it surprised even me.
Margaret straightened triumphantly.
“Youll get your test,” I continued, circling the table to face her. “Well all take itme, Edward, Oliver. But on one condition.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“And whats that?”
“You take it too.”
“Me?” She faltered. “Why would I?”
“To prove you have any right to this family, since youre so keen on tearing it apart,” I said flatly. “Unless youre not even related. Lets check. Everyone.”
For a moment, her mask slipped. Confusion turned to rage, flushing her neck and cheeks.
“How dare you, you little upstart!” she hissed, but her voice lacked its usual icy certainty. My strike had landed.
“I dare,” I replied evenly. “Take it or leave it. You want the truth? Then we get all of it.”
Edward looked up at me, terrified. His eyes begged me to stop. But I couldnt.
Margaret glared at me, hatred burning in her stare. She saw her plan crumbling.
“Fine,” she spat. “Have it your way. But when that envelope opens and everyone sees youve had another mans child Ill personally throw your things out the door.”
She turned and slammed the door so hard the glasses in the cabinet rattled.
Edward and I were alone. He looked at me as if Id betrayed him.
“Why, Em? Why drag her into this? Shes my mother.”
“She humiliated me, Edward. She insulted our son. And you sat there and said nothing.”
“Shes just worried,” he muttered, rubbing his forehead. “She doesnt mean harm.”
“No harm?” The words echoed in my mind. This woman had spent months dismantling my life, my motherhood, our marriage. And he called it harmless.
The next three days were torture. Margaret waged warcalling Edward ten times a day, sobbing about how her only son could doubt his own mother.
He returned from work exhausted, avoiding my gaze.
Then came the reinforcementsEdwards cousin, Beatrice, who called to lecture me.
“Emily, come to your senses,” she pleaded. “Margarets blood pressures through the roof. How can you do this to her? Drop this nonsense.”
I hung up. They wanted me to feel guilty. To surrender. But their pressure only steeled my resolve.
On test day, we drove in silence. Margaret sat in the back like a queen, staring out the window. Edward gripped the wheel until his knuckles whitened. I held Olivers carrier.
At the clinic, she played the martyrsighing dramatically, rolling her eyes at the nurse.
As we left, she cornered me. Edward had stepped away to pay.
“Happy now?” she whispered venomously. “Made a spectacle of yourself.”
“I just want this over,” I said wearily.
She smirked. “Oh, this is just the beginning, dear. Youve no idea what Ill do when I have that envelope.”
I said nothing. Just looked at her. And for the first time, she glanced away.
The week of waiting was eerie, like the calm before a storm. Edward and I barely spoke.
I knew there was no going back. That envelope would be a verdictfor me, as she hoped, or for the life wed known.
When the courier arrived, Margaret appeared within minutesas if shed been waiting outside.
She marched in uninvited, face set for judgment. Edward emerged, pale as parchment.
“Well? Found your truth?” She reached for the envelope. “Give it here.”
I didnt hand it over.
“No, Margaret. Ill do it.”
She sneered, anticipating victory.
“You know, Emily,” she said sweetly, “even if that envelope says what you want youll always be an outsider. A nobody clinging to our name.”
She paused, relishing the blow. Edward looked at the floor.
“And a child like yours will never belong. Not even with a hundred tests. The bloods all wrong.”
That was it. The final straw. Something inside me snapped.
All my fear, my pain, my attempts to be the perfect wifegone. Only clarity remained.
I opened the envelope. The rustle of paper was deafening.
Inside were several sheets. I skimmed the first. Then the second.
Margarets triumphant smile faltered.
“Well? Spit it out, actress.”
I turned to Edward.
“Congratulations. Youre the father. Probability: 99.9%.”
Margarets smile vanished. Edward sighed in reliefthen tensed at my expression.
“Forgery!” she shrieked. “She paid for this!”
I ignored her. Picked up the third sheet.
“Now for the truth you wanted, Margaret.”
I stepped toward her. She recoiled.
“It says” I let the words hang. “Based on DNA analysis, Margaret Thompson is excluded as the biological mother of Edward Thompson.” Probability of maternity: 0%.
Silence. Thick and suffocating.
Margaret stared, her face waxen. Lips moving soundlessly. She turned to Edward.
And my husband he looked at me, at the paper, at the woman hed called Motherhis eyes hollow with horror.
His world had shattered in an instant.
A choked sound escaped him. He reached for the paper, fingers trembling. I handed it over.
“This cant be,” Margaret whispered, voice broken. “Youyou witch!”
She lunged, but I didnt flinch. Just held her gaze. And she stopped dead.
Her fury, her powergone. Just a frightened old woman.
“Get out,” I said softly, but it cut like a blade.
“What?”
“Get out of my house.”
“Edward!” she wailed, turning to him. “My boy, tell her! Youre my son! I raised you!”
But Edward wasnt listening. He kept rereading the same line. Then he looked at herempty.
“Who am I?” he whispered.
That broke her. She crumpled to the floor, sobbing. The performance was over.
The next day, we called Edwards father, Richard. He came immediately. I laid out the facts, handed him the results.
He stared at Margaret
