You’re Raising a Dead Woman’s Affair Baby
The moment felt unreal. My sister-in-law, Isabel, stood in my living room, her face twisted with triumph and something else—self-righteousness, maybe. She shoved a piece of paper toward me, a DNA test, her hands shaking with conviction.
“You’re raising a dead woman’s affair baby,” she spat, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
I blinked at her, the words bouncing off me like they were in a foreign language. My daughter, Ava, my sweet, innocent six-year-old, clung to my leg, her big brown eyes looking up at me, confused and frightened.
“She’s not yours,” Isabel repeated, shaking the paper as if that made it more real.
And then, the absurdity of it all hit me, hard and fast, and I did the last thing she expected. I laughed. A full, belly-aching laugh that made my stomach hurt.
Isabel’s face turned red with frustration. “What the hell is so funny?” she snapped.
I wiped at my eyes, still chuckling. “You went behind my back, stole my daughter’s DNA, and ran a test without my consent? What do you think you are, some kind of detective?”
She opened her mouth but then shut it just as quickly. Her eyes darted toward Ava, who was still clutching my leg, her brows furrowed in confusion.
That was when my laughter stopped. The humor drained out of me in an instant, replaced by a white-hot anger.
“Get out of my house,” I growled, my voice low and firm.
“Jake, you don’t understand—”
“No, YOU don’t understand!” I stepped between her and Ava, my protective instincts kicking in. “You come into MY home, throw accusations in front of MY child, and expect what? A thank-you? A pat on the back? Get. Out. Now.”
Ava’s tiny fingers squeezed mine as she whispered, “Daddy, why is Aunt Isabel mad? Did I do something bad?”
The question shattered something inside me. I knelt, cupping her face in my hands. “No, sweetheart. You did nothing wrong. Aunt Isabel made a mistake, that’s all.”
Isabel’s expression crumpled, but I wasn’t in the mood for her regret.
“Jake, please, if you’d just listen—”
“No, I’m done listening,” I cut her off, standing tall and lifting Ava into my arms. “Leave my house before I say something I can’t take back.”
As Isabel turned to leave, Ava whispered in my ear, “Are you still my daddy?”
The words hit me harder than any punch ever could. I held her tighter, pressing my face into her curls to hide the tears threatening to spill. “Always, baby girl. Always and forever.”
Let me back up.
My name is Jake, and I’m thirty years old. Ava is my daughter. Not by blood, never has been, never will be. But that has never mattered.
Her parents, Hannah and Daniel, were my best friends. They were like my family, the kind you choose. Hannah had a laugh that could make the whole world smile, and Daniel was the most dependable guy I ever knew. They got married, had a baby, and three months later, they were gone. A car accident. Just like that.
Ava had no one else. No grandparents, no aunts, no uncles. Just me.
I was twenty-four, single, with zero experience in raising a kid. But I wasn’t about to let her go into the foster system. So, I stepped up. Signed the papers. Became her father.
My family knew. My daughter knew. No secrets, no lies. But apparently, my brother, Ronaldo, and his fiancée, Isabel, had come up with their own version of events.
Looking back, I should’ve seen it coming. A few weeks ago, Isabel had been at my parents’ house staring at an old photo on the wall. It was me, Hannah, and Daniel.
“That’s Ava’s mom,” I had explained when she asked.
She had stared at the picture for too long. “They look happy.”
“They were,” I had said, smiling at the memory. “Hannah had the kind of laugh that could make anyone laugh too. And Daniel? He was the best guy I ever knew. When Hannah went into labor, he was so nervous he drove to the hospital in his slippers.”
“And how did you feel when they had Ava?” she had pressed.
I had thought the question was odd, but I had answered honestly. “Overjoyed. I was the first person they called. I brought them terrible hospital coffee and stayed up all night with Daniel. He kept saying, ‘I can’t believe I’m a dad.'”
She had nodded, but her expression had darkened. Later that night, I had seen her making a quiet phone call in the hallway. I should have known something was off.
And now, here we were.
When I confronted Isabel later, her arms were crossed, her face set in defiance. “I knew something was wrong,” she insisted. “Ava looks nothing like you. And when I saw that picture, I knew she wasn’t yours.”
“And you thought she was an affair baby?” I asked, incredulous.
She hesitated but then nodded. “You never said she wasn’t biologically yours.”
“I never said she was either. Because it’s none of your damn business.”
And then it hit me. “This wasn’t just you, was it? Ronaldo put you up to this.”
She hesitated, and that was all the confirmation I needed.
When I confronted Ronaldo, I was already done with him.
“You actually believed I had an affair with my best friend’s wife? Lied about it for years?” I demanded.
Ronaldo scoffed. “You never wanted kids, Jake. Then suddenly, you adopt a baby? What was I supposed to think?”
“Maybe that I loved her parents? That I wasn’t going to let their daughter be raised by strangers?” My voice shook with anger. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Ava asked me last night if she was still my daughter. A six-year-old child wondering if her father still loves her because of you.”
Ronaldo looked away.
“Let me tell you something,” I said, my voice low and deadly. “Being Ava’s father isn’t a sacrifice. It’s the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. And if you can’t understand that, then I don’t want you in my life.”
As for Isabel, she apologized, genuinely. She admitted that her own family history had clouded her judgment.
“My mom had an affair,” she confessed. “When my dad found out my little brother wasn’t his, it destroyed us. I didn’t want that to happen to you.”
I sighed. “Isabel, blood doesn’t make a family. Love does.”
She nodded, tears in her eyes. “I see that now. And I think I’m leaving Ronaldo. If he could lie to me for two years, what else is he capable of?”
That was a good question.
That night, I tucked Ava into bed, her small hand curling into my sleeve. “I’m your daughter, right?”
I kissed her forehead. “Always, baby.”
And that’s the only truth that has ever mattered.
