My name is Lucy. For years, I watched my husband Alan dotingly raise our youngest, Kyle—my heart swelled every time he called me “Mom.” So when Kyle was hospitalized after a motorcycle accident at 23, I offered to donate blood to him without hesitation. Alan agreed. The test came back positive—my blood was compatible.
A few months later, Kyle was poring over his medical records and froze. “Mom,” he said, face ashen, “I’m AB+. Dad is A, and you said you’re O+. That’s impossible.” My stomach knotted. I dropped everything and rushed to him. “You’re… you’re not mine,” he whispered. They said it as a question, but the truth weighed like stone.
I nodded, tears spilling. “Yes, I knew.” Then he asked, trembling, “All these years… why didn’t you say something?”
Because I loved him more than any betrayal, I answered gently, “Because you’re my son. I love you more than I hate what your father did. Always have. Always will.”
We didn’t tell Alan. It became our unspoken bond. And even though the truth was painful, it brought us closer than ever—proof that love isn’t bound by biology.
