The first time my husband gave our adopted three-year-old son a bath, he shouted, “We have to take him back!”

After years of infertility, my husband Mark and I adopted Sam, a sweet three-year-old with sky-blue eyes. But the moment Mark gave him a bath, he stormed out, shouting, “We must return him!” I didn’t understand his panic—until I saw the unique birthmark on Sam’s foot. It matched Mark’s exactly.

I never expected adopting a child to shake the foundation of our marriage. But looking back, I see that sometimes joy arrives tangled with pain.

I handled most of the adoption process while Mark focused on work. Though we’d hoped for an infant, the wait led me to Sam—a toddler whose photo instantly tugged at my heart. When I showed Mark, he smiled and agreed: “He looks like a great kid.”

At the agency, Sam quietly handed me a red block. That small gesture felt like the start of everything. The car ride home was peaceful—Sam held a stuffed elephant and made trumpet sounds. At home, Mark offered to give him a bath while I unpacked.

Moments later, he burst out in a panic. “We can’t do this. It’s a mistake,” he said, pale and shaking. He couldn’t explain why. I ran to the bathroom. Sam sat confused in the tub, still wearing socks, clutching his elephant.

As I undressed him, I froze. The birthmark on his foot was unmistakable—identical to Mark’s. I washed Sam while my mind raced. Later, I confronted Mark. “His foot has your birthmark.”

He brushed it off, but I saw the fear in his eyes. I collected a swab from Sam and hair from Mark’s brush. A DNA test confirmed what I suspected: Mark was Sam’s biological father.

When I confronted him, he confessed—just one drunken night years ago, during our fertility struggles. He hadn’t known she got pregnant.

“You knew when you saw the birthmark,” I said. He admitted it. “I panicked. It all came back.”

The next day, I consulted a lawyer. As Sam’s adoptive mother, I had legal rights. Mark had none. That night, I told him I wanted a divorce—and full custody.

“You were ready to abandon him like his mother did,” I said. “I won’t let that happen.”

Mark didn’t fight me. Sam asked sometimes why Daddy didn’t live with us. I simply told him, “Grown-ups make mistakes, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love you.”

Today, Sam is thriving. Mark sends cards but stays distant. People ask if I regret staying after learning the truth. I never do.

Sam became mine the moment he handed me that red block. Love is a choice—and I chose him.