My daughter is increasingly unlike me, I decided to do a DNA test, but I didn’t expect that the author of the tragedy started from “grandfather””
My name is Antonio, 38 years old, a construction engineer. My family is small, only three people: me, my wife – Marites, and my daughter – Alona, ​​eight years old this year. For eight years, I believed that I was living happily, until recently, a small doubt crept in and made my life turn into a path of no return.

Alona – the child I held when she was a newborn, grew up to be more and more… unlike me. Not only her appearance – slightly curly hair, bright brown eyes, smooth white skin – but also her personality. She is unusually intelligent, has strange hobbies: painting, classical music, even likes French – while no one in my paternal family has such qualities.

One time I went to school with my wife to pick up my child, the teacher smiled and said:
– “Alona has a talent for art very. Is there anyone in our family who is an artist? Or grandparents?”

I forced a smile, turned to Marites. She paused for a moment, then smiled. That smile sent a chill down my spine.

My suspicions grew. One night, when my wife and children were asleep, I secretly took Alona’s comb, plucked a few strands of hair and sent them for a DNA test at a reputable center in Manila.

Ten days later, the results came back.
I opened the envelope with trembling hands. The bright red words: “NO BLOOD RELATIONSHIP” hit me like a death sentence.

The house suddenly became strange. I faced Marites that night:
– “Tell the truth. Alona is not my child, right?”

She was stunned, her eyes wide open, her hands trembling:
– “What are you… saying?”

– “I have the test results. How long are you going to hide it?”

Marites burst into tears. But what made me speechless was the next sentence:

– “No… I didn’t betray you. I didn’t have an affair.”

– “Then where did Alona come from?!”

She was silent, then whispered:
– “I… don’t know either.”

Then Marites told the shocking secret…
A few months after we got married, my father – Mang Ernesto – whispered to her that I had a “genetic problem”, my chances of having children were very low, and I needed to see a doctor. He suggested taking Marites to a familiar hospital, doing “supportive intervention”, so that my self-esteem wouldn’t be hurt. He said he had prepared a sperm donor – a relative – and assured me that only he would know.

Marites was young, naive, and trusted her father-in-law, who was calm and gentle. She agreed.

– “Who was the sperm donor?” – I growled.
– “I don’t know. He said it was someone in the family, healthy and intelligent. I believe you.”

My head felt like it was going to explode.

The next morning, I went straight to my father’s house. I brought Ernesto who was watering the plants in the yard. I threw the test results on the table:

“Dad, explain.”

He looked at the paper, was silent for a moment, then sighed:

“So you know.”

“Who is the sperm donor?!”

His eyes were sad:

“It’s… Dad.”

I was stunned.

“What did you say?! Dad… is Alona’s biological father?”

He nodded, his voice low:

“That year, after the accident, the doctor said your fertility was almost zero. I was afraid you would despair, afraid you would lose faith in being a father. I thought, if it was blood in the family, at least you would have a child with the family lineage.”

I trembled:

“Did you think about the consequences? I lived for eight years like a fool! I loved him like flesh and blood. But now… what am I in his life?!”

He bowed his head:
– “Dad… sorry.”

I left, my mind in turmoil.

For weeks, I was like a zombie. Marites tried to hold on, but I had no mind left.

One night, I stood by the window, watching Alona sleeping soundly, hugging the teddy bear I gave her. Her innocent smile made my heart ache. No matter how cruel the truth was, I still loved her.

Marites walked out, put her hand on my shoulder:
– “You can be angry with me, but please don’t leave her. She loves you. She doesn’t know anything.”

I looked at my wife, my eyes red:
– “I don’t know what I am anymore, Marites. Am I a father, a brother, or just a betrayer by my own family?”

She burst into tears:
– “I was deceived too, Antonio. I never wanted this.”

After many days of thinking, I took Alona for a walk in the park and decided to talk frankly:
– “No matter what happens, Dad is still the person who loves you the most in the world. Not because of blood, but because of love. Do you understand?”

Alona was bewildered, then hugged me tightly:
– “I don’t need to know anything. I just need Dad.”

My tears fell.

I could not forgive Mang Ernesto. But I chose to live on. Marites and I temporarily separated for a while, to heal the rift.

A few months later, Mang Ernesto fell ill. He wrote me a long letter, apologizing, recounting all his obsessions, complexes, and love for me. I kept that letter in a drawer, never to open it again.

Alona grew up. She became more and more like… herself: smart, independent, creative. I stopped looking for “my traces” in her. Because I understood, true love between father and child… does not need to be proven by DNA.

Ten years have passed since I learned that terrible secret. Alona is now an 18-year-old girl, beautiful and talented. She studies at the University of the Arts in Manila, her passion for painting and music makes me both proud and surprised.

I tried to live as if there was no secret. To me, Alona is still my daughter. I chose to stay silent, bury everything to protect her childhood. Marites did the same. We agreed that we would never let her know, because that could destroy her young world.

But life is not that simple.

A medical record

It all started when Alona needed a genetic profile to participate in a student exchange program to France. The school required both parents to provide DNA samples for medical comparison.

I was confused, my heart was pounding. I tried to delay, but Alona was adamant:

“Dad, this is very important. I must have all the documents. Why do you keep avoiding it?”

I couldn’t answer. Marites looked at me, her eyes full of worry.

Finally, I was forced to sign the consent form for the DNA test.

Two weeks later, when I had just come home from work, Alona was waiting in the living room, on the table was the result envelope. Her face was pale, her eyes were red.

“Dad… what is this? Why… the result says you are not my biological father?”

I was stunned. The nightmare from that day returned, this time even more intense.

“Who is really my father?!” – Alona screamed, tears streaming down.

I trembled, wanting to hug my child, but she pushed my hand away.

That night, Marites and I sat in front of Alona. The room was filled with silence. Finally, I said, my voice choking:

“My child… I intended to hide this for the rest of my life. But now that you’re grown up, you have the right to know.”

I told him everything: from the day after the accident, when the doctor told me I was almost infertile, to when Mang Ernesto – my grandfather – secretly arranged for Marites to undergo insemination. I emphasized that both my father and mother were victims of a lie.

Alona listened, her face pale. When she heard the sentence: “The sperm donor… was my grandfather,” her eyes widened, stunned as if struck by lightning.

“No way… you’re lying to me!” – Alona screamed.

“Alona, ​​I’m sorry. But it’s the truth.” – I choked up.

In the days that followed, Alona seemed to have become a different person. She avoided me, didn’t talk to my mother, and locked her room all day. On social media, he wrote painful lines: “Who am I? How was I born? Has my whole life been a lie?”

One night, he turned to me, his eyes full of anger:
– “Dad, you let me live 18 years in a lie. Have you thought about my feelings? I don’t know who I am anymore!”

I held my head, not knowing how to respond. I was hurt because I had also been betrayed, but now the innocent child had to bear the pain even more.

A few weeks later, Alona decided to go to the cemetery to visit Mang Ernesto’s grave. He stood still for a long time, then burst into tears:
– “Why did you do that? Why did you turn me into the result of a sin?”

I stood behind him, watching him cry, my heart torn apart. I wanted to shout that he was not a “sin”, he was the only light in my life. But I was afraid that all the words at that moment were meaningless.

It took Alona many months to calm down. One time, when I was sitting quietly sketching a project, he came over and put his hand on my shoulder:
– “No matter what… you are still the one who raised me, took care of me, and loved me. I cannot forget those memories.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. I hugged him tightly, trembling:
– “I don’t need the title of biological father. I just want to be your father.”

Alona nodded, but in his eyes there were still wounds that could not be healed.

That story was not really over. Alona entered adulthood with a heavy secret about her origin. I, Marites, and she were still learning to accept, learning to heal.

I don’t know what the future holds. I only know one thing: No matter what the DNA says, no matter how cruel the truth is, my love for Alona will never change.

And I believe, one day, you will understand that: sometimes, a father is not the one who gives us blood… but the one who chooses to stay and love us for the rest of our lives.