A month after adopting Jennifer, she whispered, “Mommy, don’t trust Daddy.” Her words lingered in my mind as I began to suspect something was off with my husband, Richard.After years of infertility, we adopted Sam, a sweet 3-year-old with ocean-blue eyes. On the drive to the agency, I was excited, but Richard seemed more nervous. Once we brought Sam home, everything felt perfect — until the bath.

Mark rushed out of the bathroom, pale and panicked, shouting, “We must return him!” Confused, I followed him to find Sam, still in the tub. Mark had recognized a birthmark on Sam’s foot, identical to his own.That night, I confronted Mark. He denied everything, but his reaction told me the truth. I secretly took DNA samples from both Mark and Sam, and the results confirmed my worst fear: Mark was Sam’s biological father. Mark confessed to a one-night affair years ago. I filed for divorce and sought full custody of Sam, who had become my son in every way. Years later, Sam and I built a happy life, while Mark kept his distance. When people ask if I regret staying, I shake my head. Sam wasn’t just adopted; he was my son, and love is always a choice. I chose him.