AT MY WIFE’S GRAVE, I LEARNED MY TRIPLETS AREN’T ACTUALLY MINE
On the first anniversary of my wife’s death, I took my triplets to her grave—only to find a stranger waiting.
“I’ll give you $100,000 for these children,” he said. Shocked, I demanded an explanation.
“They aren’t yours,” he revealed, handing me a DNA test. My wife had an affair—he was their biological father.
My world shattered. But as I looked at the children I’d raised, I knew the truth: fatherhood isn’t about DNA.
“I am their father,” I declared, rejecting his offer. Love, not biology, makes a parent.
Tearing up the check, I walked away with my children. In the end, they weren’t the ones who weren’t mine—it was my wife.
