We had been married to Marek for almost four years. Our marriage wasn’t perfect, but we loved each other and tried to solve all our problems together.
However, there was always one difficulty in our relationship—his mother, Karolina.
She never hid the fact that she didn’t like me. Fortunately, we lived separately, and our meetings with her were limited to holidays. I tried not to pay attention to her remarks, but after our son was born, the situation changed.
Karolina started coming to our house almost every day. At first, I thought she just wanted to help, see her grandson, or give some advice. But soon, it became clear that she had other intentions.
— Marek, you need to take a DNA test — she kept repeating.
— Mom, stop it — Marek would say. — This is my son; we don’t need to prove anything.
— Really? Don’t you see? Look at him. He doesn’t look like you at all. He has light hair, different eyes. Can’t you see it?
I tried not to react. After all, Marek knew the truth. He trusted me. But Karolina was more persistent than I had expected.
Every day, she talked to him, discussed it with other relatives, and convinced them that the child wasn’t his. And they started to believe her.
One day, Marek came home in a strange mood. Silent, avoiding eye contact with me. I knew something was wrong.
— I’m sorry, but Mom won’t let it go. What if she’s right? Maybe we should take the test to settle this once and for all.
I felt sad. I knew our child was his son, but his request hurt me. He didn’t trust me.
— Fine — I said. — Let’s take the test. But after that, you’ll do exactly as I say.
Marek looked at me in surprise but agreed.
We took the test. A few days later, the results came in: “Probability of paternity — 99.99%.” Marek sighed in relief, and for the first time, Karolina was silent.
— Well, Mom, are you satisfied now? — Marek asked.
She shrugged.
— Fine, I was wrong. But still…
I didn’t want to listen to her. I had already started packing.
— Where are you going? — Marek asked, stunned.
— I’m leaving — I said, holding our child in my arms and looking him in the eyes. — I can’t live with someone who doesn’t trust me.
— I’m sorry, I was wrong! I didn’t mean to hurt you! It’s my mother’s fault…
— You let her destroy our relationship. Now live with that decision.
I walked away. Since then, I haven’t spoken to Marek or his family. He called, he texted, he apologized, but it was too late. Once trust is broken, it can’t be repaired.
