After our son’s birth, I demanded a paternity test. Zara asked what I’d do if he wasn’t mine; I said I’d leave. The test was negative, so I signed papers, packed, and left. Three years later, a letter revealed the test was wrong—Milan was mine.
I confronted Zara, who admitted she told Milan I died in a crash to protect me. Devastated, I fought through lawyers and therapy for supervised visits. Milan called me “Mr. Noah” at first, but slowly trusted me, eventually calling me “Daddy.” When Zara moved to Atlanta, I followed, refusing to be distant again.
We learned to co-parent, then cautiously rekindled our love. When Milan faced a chronic illness, I stayed, supporting Zara through hospital stays. Years later, we remarried quietly, with Milan, now seven, laughing as our ringbearer. He once said, “You came back. That’s what matters.” He’s right.
