After Four Daughters, My Husband Finally Got the Son He’d Been Begging
My husband observed something on our newborn after I gave him the boy he had desired
for eight years. His smile disappeared, and a few seconds later, he accused me of being unfaithful.
As I counted my breaths, exhausted from twelve hours of labor, the maternity ward’s ceiling tiles blurred above me. A baby was crying somewhere down the hall, and my arms were aching to hold it.
I had experienced that emptiness firsthand during my five pregnancies over the course of eight years.
With his phone in hand and a Christmas morning smile on his face, my husband, Aaron, paced close to the window.
Our four lovely girls, Lily, Grace, Chloe, and little Ava, were excited to see their new baby brother at home.
“He’s ours, Aaron.”
“Your sister Diana just texted,” he added. “The girls made a banner. Even Ava tried to help — apparently she mostly ate the crayons.”
It hurt in the greatest way when I laughed.
“Lily promised Grace she’d let her hold him first,” he said. “Chloe wants to know if he’s coming home tonight.”
“Not tonight, sweetheart.”
He approached the side of the bed and gave my hand a firm squeeze that caused my knuckles to push together. I sensed his vibrations.
“Next time.”
“I told you, Elena. I told you this one was mine.”
“He’s ours, Aaron.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes, I did. Long before this pregnancy, I had said that having four daughters would be plenty, but once
I saw how much Aaron desired a son, I stopped. When he mentioned trying again, it was simpler to smile than to see the look of disappointment on his face.
“He’s been a lifesaver.”
I recalled the small room at the end of the hall that he had painted slate blue three years prior, with
the wooden train set already waiting on the shelf, and the hospital room after Ava, our fourth daughter, pink and squalling in my arms, and Aaron kissing her forehead before whispering, not
cruelly, “Next time.”
“Michael dropped off dinner at the house last night,” Aaron said. “Lasagna. Said to tell you
congratulations in advance.”
“He’s been a lifesaver these last few months.”
“He really has.”
“You two look comfortable.”
When my back gave up in the third trimester, Michael had completed the school runs. He had given us groceries on Sunday afternoons, picked up Chloe from ballet, and waited with Ava at the pediatrician
when I was bedridden. Tall and laid back, they have been Aaron’s best buddy since they were fourteen. They are an integral part of our life.
Michael and I were chuckling over coffee at the kitchen table when Aaron arrived home early.
“You two look comfortable,” he had remarked.
When he said that, I rolled my eyes and he grinned. However, he inquired about Michael’s frequency of visits while he wasn’t at home that evening.
“He’s healthy. Seven pounds, four ounces.”
Back then, I had also laughed. I didn’t realize the question had a deeper meaning.
Suddenly, I remembered him from a pool party two summers ago, screaming from his shoulders as he climbed out of the water. As he bent to put her down, his shirt had risen up, momentarily revealing the
light crescent-shaped mark close to his lower back.
Then, as I was overcome by yet another wave of fatigue, the recollection vanished.
“Elena,” the doctor whispered from the doorway, her eyes wrinkled and her mask dropped. “You did beautifully. He’s healthy. Seven pounds, four ounces.”
“Ready to meet Dad, little man?”
I had never seen Aaron’s face light up like that. Not on the day of our wedding. Not during Lily’s birth. None of them.
“A son,” he muttered. “We have a son.”
His eyes brightened.
“Thank you,” he said to the physician.
“He’s perfect.”
Our little bundled kid was placed inside the bassinet as Rachel, the nurse, wheeled it closer.
“Ready to meet Dad, little man?”
Like a holy object, Aaron raised our son into his arms.
“Look at him, Elena,” he said. “He’s perfect.”
Aaron then became silent.
I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded. Eight years. four daughters. And now the son that Aaron had
desired for as long as I had known him.
“Let me get him into a fresh onesie,” Rachel said.
Reluctantly, Aaron returned him.
She unsnapped the little robe, peeled down the swaddling, and placed the infant in the cot.
“It can’t be.”
Aaron then became silent.
Not the silence of wonder. A distinct silence. The kind that caused a ten-degree dip in temperature.
I raised my head.
“Aaron? What is it?”
He remained silent. From where I lay, I couldn’t see the mark dad was staring at on the small of our
baby’s back.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
He murmured, “It can’t be,” in a voice that was nearly too quiet to hear. “It can’t be, it can’t be.”
“Aaron.”
He leaned closer to the bassinet, as tho what he was seeing may be reversed by a fresh viewpoint. His jaw moved. I saw him attempt to make sense of it, and I saw the debate fade away behind his eyes.
“Rachel.” He said in a dull voice. “Can you… can you leave us for a minute?”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Rachel’s professional smile held as she gazed between us. With skilled hands, she snapped the robe shut.
“Of course. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
The door closed with a click. Aaron remained still.
“Honey, you’re scaring me,” I replied. “What’s wrong with him? Is he okay?”
“You asked him to help us.”
He gently turned to face me. Tho not as much as they had been ten minutes earlier, his eyes were still damp. They had lost something harsh and distant.
“Michael.”
I gave a blink. “What?”
“Michael,” he said again. “All those months I was working late. He was at the house. With you.”
This was all nonsensical.
I gazed at him.
“Because you asked him to help us.”
Aaron turned to face the bassinet again.
“Your son has his birthmark, Elena. The same shape. The same place.”
Since none of this made sense, I briefly laughed because I thot he was kidding.
“He was alone with you.”
“Aaron, what are you talking about? He’s your son. What does Michael have to do with…”
He raised one hand and said, “Don’t.” “Don’t say his name to me like you don’t know.”
“I don’t know,” I replied. My voice broke.
“He was at the house. Every week. He was picking up the girls from school. He was alone with you.”
“A DNA test. Right now.”
“Because I was seven months pregnant and you were working overtime, Aaron. Because he was
helping us. Because he is your best friend.”
“Don’t.”
My milk let down at the perfect time, soaking thru the flimsy hospital gown in two dark circles as quick, stinging heat burst across my chest. The sutures tugged as I sat up too quickly, causing a bright,
burning tug deep within my body. I extended my hand and took hold of his wrist.
“Then do a test,” I replied. “A DNA test. Right now. Today. I don’t care what it costs, I don’t care what
you have to sign, do it.”
“Don’t you dare do this to us.”
As if I had burned him, he withdrew his hand.
“I don’t need a test to tell me what I’m looking at.”
“Aaron.”
“Take the baby to your sister’s when they discharge you. Take him to Diana’s. I can’t. I can’t be in the
same house.”
“Aaron, please. Just look at me.”
I was dishonest.
He didn’t.
“Don’t do this. Don’t you dare do this to us.”
He made his way to the door. He avoided looking at our son. He avoided looking at me.
Then he was gone, leaving me by myself with a baby whose father had suddenly determined that I was
a liar after just one look.
Without saying anything, Diana grabbed the car seat from me and shut the front door behind me. I was standing in my sister’s hallway with my three-day-old son, a diaper bag, a hospital bracelet still on
my wrist, and a phone full of messages that Aaron wouldn’t open.
“He won’t pick up.”
The girls had already gone upstairs. Lily had twice inquired as to when Dad would be picking us up. I had no idea what to tell her.
“Sit down,” Diana commanded. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
The banner they had created for the infant was packed and carried by Grace. WELCOME HOME HENRY
was written across it in four different colors, and it was now folded on the stairs with one corner bent.
She had said, “Should I save it for when Dad comes?”
“Elena, stop calling him.”
I couldn’t bring myself to explain why we weren’t going home at all, so I said sure.
“He won’t pick up. Look.”
I extended the screen. I missed three calls. Aaron’s response:
“My attorney will get in touch with you regarding the separation.”
Diana read it twice.
“You’re not guilty. Act like it.”
“Elena, stop calling him.”
“He’s my husband. I have to make him listen.”
“He’s not listening. That’s the whole point.” She sat down across from me and put her hand on my
knee. “You keep begging, you keep looking guilty. You’re not guilty. Act like it.”
I stared at the infant.
The worst thing was waiting.
“What do I do?”
“You prove it in a language he can’t argue with.”
That afternoon, I placed the test order. Diana returned home and retrieved Aaron’s toothbrush from
our restroom for me. My youngster took ten seconds to swab his cheeks. It took me an hour to mail both samples since I was shaking while sitting in the parking lot with the envelope in my lap.
The worst thing was waiting.
“I’ve known him a long time.”
Every time Michael had spent time with me alone, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Two summers ago,
the pool party. While Aaron worked late, I had coffee mugs on my kitchen table.
The doorbell rang on the fourth day.
Michael held a plush bear as he stood on Diana’s porch.
I briefly recalled him standing a few feet behind the family at Aaron’s father’s funeral as everyone filed past the coffin.
It had seemed odd to me back then. Michael had remained, gazing at the closed lid, until nearly everyone else had left.
“I can’t talk about it right now.”
He just said, “I’ve known him a long time,” when I asked how he was doing.
I thot he was referring to Aaron.
“Elena, what’s going on? Aaron blocked me. Did I do something?”
I held against the doorframe.
“He deserves to hear it from Aaron.”
“I can’t talk about it right now.”
His expression shifted.
“Is it the baby?”
“We’re fine. Just give us time.”
After placing the bear on the step, he departed.
First came relief.
Diana watched him leave. “You didn’t tell him.”
“He deserves to hear it from Aaron. Not me.”
The results arrived in my mailbox a week after I mailed the sample. In Diana’s kitchen, I opened the
PDF on my phone. I was surprised at how steady my hands were.
“Paternity probability: 99.99%.”
I went over the number once more.
This time, I was not going to plead.
Relief took precedence for a foolish moment. Then it was consumed with rage.
I would have given Aaron a call right away a week ago. I would have sobbed into the phone, assured him that everything was fine, and pled with him to return home so we could move past this.
I touched his name with my thumb.
Then I recalled that at the hospital, he had withdrawn his hand from mine. I recalled pleading with him to give me a look as he made his way to the door.
“I am so, so sorry.”
This time, I was not going to plead.
I sent it on to Aaron. There is no subject line. Nothing to say. only the attachment.
In less than an hour, he was on the porch.
I remained in the frame while I opened the door. He wasn’t invited in by me.
“Please let me hold him.”
His voice broke on my name, “Elena.” “Elena, I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
“You saw the file.”
“I saw it. I read it four times.”
“Good.”
“Please. Please let me hold him. Let me come home.”
“Call Michael.”
I looked at Aaron. He was crying openly.
“Aaron, one question. Answer it honestly.”
“Anything.”
“Then why does our son have Michael’s birthmark?”
“Start with the birthmark.”
His face went blank. Whatever apology he’d rehearsed died in his throat.
“Call Michael.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Call him.”
“Elena, I don’t even know what I’m asking.”
“Then start with the birthmark.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. I held out my hand.
“Give me the phone.”
That did it. Aaron pulled it from his pocket and called.
“Tell him yes.”
Michael answered on the third ring.
“Aaron?”
“That birthmark,” Aaron said. “The one on your back. Where did you get it?”
Silence. Then Michael exhaled.
“Is the baby there?”
“You need to come over.”
I looked at Aaron. “Tell him yes.”
Aaron gulped.
“Yes.”
One more quiet moment.
Then Michael added, “You need to come over. Both of you.”
“Your father was my father too.”
An hour later, Diana stayed with the children while Aaron and I sat across from Michael at his kitchen
table.
He stared at Aaron.
“Our father had the same mark.”
Aaron went completely still.
“How long have you known?”
“What did you say?”
Michael’s eyes sank to the table.
“Your father was my father too.”
I was the first one to speak.
“Your father knew too.”
“How long have you known?”
“Since I was seventeen.”
Aaron gazed at him. “You knew?”
Michael gave a nod.
“Your father knew too,” I said.
“He made me promise.”
“Yes.”
“And he made you keep it from Aaron?”
Michael brushed both hands over his face.
“He made me promise. Said I could be part of Aaron’s life as his friend, but never as his brother.”
“I was burying my father, Aaron.”
“Even after he died?” I inquired.
Michael turned to face Aaron.
“After our father died, you were the only family I had left. I’d already kept the truth from you for years.
I was terrified that if I told you then, you’d hate me for lying and I’d lose you too.”
Aaron pushed back from the table.
“That’s why you were like that at the funeral.”
“You have a lot to talk about.”
Michael’s expression twisted.
“I was burying my father, Aaron. And I had to stand there pretending he wasn’t mine.”
Aaron put his hands over his face.
I watched him for a moment. I got up after that.
He raised his head. “Elena….”
“I got the answer I came for.”
“You have a lot to talk about.”
“Wait.”
However, I was already grabbing my coat.
“I got the answer I came for.”
“I betrayed you.”
The following morning, Aaron visited Diana.
At the door, I encountered him.
“Elena, I was wrong. About everything. Please come home. I’ll do therapy. Anything.”
I glanced down the hallway at our son’s bassinet. Next, at Aaron.
“I begged you to stay.”
“No.”
“Elena, please.”
“One birthmark was enough for you to believe I betrayed you. My word wasn’t enough to make you believe I hadn’t. I had to prove myself to my own husband.”
“I was angry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“I begged you to stay. And you walked out.”
I looked over to the bassinet.
He grabbed my hand. I withdrew it.
“You didn’t need proof to condemn me. You needed proof to believe me. I can’t build a life on that.”
My son started to fuss behind me.
Aaron repeated my name.
Instead, I turned to face the bassinet.
I was making my own decisions.
It had been simpler to please Aaron than to let him down for years. To keep our family together, I had
swallowed my reservations, consented to another pregnancy, and shrunk.
However, something had changed in me between the hospital room where he left me and the
doorway when I eventually told him no.
At last, I realized that keeping my family together didn’t need me to sacrifice myself in order to protect them.
I took my son in my arms and turned to leave without turning around.
I wasn’t picking Aaron for the first time in years.
I was making my own decisions.
