What Happened to My Son!

I had just arrived at the kindergarten to pick up my son when a little girl suddenly ran up and threw her arms around me.

“Daddy! How come you had time to pick me up today?”

Startled, I looked down at the unfamiliar child clinging to my leg. “Sweetheart, I think you’ve got the wrong person. I’m here to pick up my son, not you.”

But then, the teacher and other parents insisted that this girl was my daughter.

Even my wife claimed we had only one child—a daughter—and that we never had a son.

I couldn’t believe it, so I had a DNA test done, determined to prove them wrong.

But the results said the same thing—this little girl was biologically mine.

Still, I knew—deep in my bones—that I had a son.

Everyone thought I was going crazy.

Then, eighteen years later, I found an Ultraman toy hidden under the bed.

——

“Honey, I have an emergency meeting today,” my wife, Annalise, said as she rushed to gather her files. “Can you please take our daughter to kindergarten?”

I glanced coldly at the girl quietly eating breakfast at the table—Katie.

“She’s not my daughter. I only have a son. His name is Zion.”

I’d asked everyone I could think of. Visited every clinic that offered paternity testing. However, every test said the same thing: Katie was my daughter.

But I couldn’t accept it. I remembered—I only had a son.

Seeing my stubborn expression, Annalise sighed, her voice tinged with helplessness.

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

“Katie is our daughter. She came early when my water broke unexpectedly. We were stuck in traffic, remember? It was chaos—you delivered her yourself in the car! You used to treasure her more than your own life. Why are you suddenly denying her existence?”

Her eyes looked at me like I was some irrational stranger.

She was right about the day she gave birth. It was a holiday. The roads were completely blocked, and there was no time to get to the hospital.

Panicked, I did what I’d once seen online—I helped deliver the baby in the car with my own hands.

But I remember clearly that the baby I delivered was a boy.

I didn't even know this little girl sitting in front of me.

Before I could say anything, Katie turned to Annalise nervously.

“Mom, don’t be mad at Dad. I must have done something wrong to upset him. That’s why he’s punishing me.”

She then walked up to me, gently taking my hand with tearful eyes.

“Daddy, I promise I’ll be good from now on. Please don’t be angry with me, okay?”

She fought back her tears as she spoke, her small body trembling with the effort.

But I felt nothing.

Coldly, I shook off her hand and said firmly, “Don’t call me that. I don’t know who you are.”

Her hopeful smile froze in place.

The tears she had tried so hard to hold back came rushing out.

Watching her break down, Annalise looked utterly heartbroken. She held Katie close and gently coaxed her out the door to take her to kindergarten.

No sooner had they left, my parents arrived.

“Ivan, why was Katie crying like that? Did you say something awful to her again?”

“You’ve questioned it, investigated it, taken multiple DNA tests—and you still don’t believe she’s your daughter?”

“She’s our only granddaughter! We’ve watched her grow up since she was born. How could we possibly be wrong about her? What did she ever do to deserve this from you?”