My daughter called me from the maternity ward, in tears, just an hour after giving birth, and asked me to come immediately. In the room, she handed me the baby with trembling hands, looked into my eyes, and whispered words that made me sink into a chair, unable to stand…

My daughter got married three years ago. It was a lovely wedding, a beautiful couple, and I was so happy for her. I liked my son-in-law — a calm, hardworking guy who loved my daughter. They rented an apartment, settled in, and lived their own life. I didn’t interfere, didn’t impose myself, just called once a week and sometimes invited them for Sunday dinner.

A year ago, my daughter announced that she was pregnant. I was over the moon. My first grandchild, and I was already imagining how I would cuddle the baby, knit booties, and go for walks with the stroller. My son-in-law was happy too, renovating the nursery, buying a crib, and a stroller. Everything was going smoothly.

But in recent months, my daughter became unusual. She called more often, cried over nothing, complained of fatigue. I attributed it to hormones and anxiety before childbirth. I reassured her, saying everything would be fine and that she would manage. She listened silently and quickly ended the conversation.

The labor began at night. My son-in-law called me in the morning to say that she was in the hospital and everything was going fine. I was planning to visit her in the afternoon, bought flowers, fruits, and baby clothes. But then she called herself shortly after. Asked me to come urgently. Alone. Without her husband.

I arrived within twenty minutes. Went up to the postpartum ward and found her room. My daughter was lying on the bed, pale, with red eyes. Next to her, a baby was sleeping, wrapped in a blue blanket. I approached, wanted to hug her and congratulate her. But she pulled away.

She picked up the baby and handed him to me. I was confused and took the little one in my arms. He was warm, sleeping peacefully. And my daughter looked at me and cried. She said she couldn’t keep him. That she couldn’t be the mother of this child. That he wasn’t her husband’s.

I didn’t understand immediately. Asked her again. She repeated. She said that half a year ago she had an affair with a co-worker. It was brief and foolish; she doesn’t even know how it happened. They broke it off, and she tried to forget. But when she found out about the pregnancy, she realized the timing didn’t match. That the child was from that man.

She lived through the entire pregnancy with this knowledge. Stayed silent. Hoped she was mistaken, and that the child would resemble her husband. But when they brought him after birth, she immediately saw it. Saw the features of that man in the baby’s face. And she realized she couldn’t look at her son every day and remember her betrayal.

She said her husband knew nothing. That he was on his way to the hospital, happy, with presents. That she couldn’t confess to him. Couldn’t destroy his life. And couldn’t raise this child while pretending everything was fine.

She asked me to take the baby. To tell her husband there were complications, that the baby died at birth. That she needed time to decide what to do next. Maybe she would leave her husband. Maybe confess. But right now, she just couldn’t look at this child.

I stood there holding my grandson, not knowing what to say. Looked at my daughter, at this helpless baby who was to blame for nothing. Trying to understand how it all happened. How my smart, sensible daughter could do this.

She begged me to help. Said I was the only person she could trust. That if I refused, she didn’t know what she would do. She cried, clutching my hands. And I held her baby and felt my heart tearing apart.

I couldn’t lie to my son-in-law. Couldn’t take the baby and hide the truth. This was his child in his eyes; he had waited nine months for this day. I told my daughter she had to decide for herself. That I would help her in any way I could. But I couldn’t lie for her.

An hour later, my son-in-law arrived. He came into the room with a bouquet, happy, excited. Took his son in his arms, couldn’t take his eyes off him. My daughter lay there staring at the ceiling. I stood by the window, not knowing what would happen next.

A week has passed. My daughter and the baby were discharged from the hospital along with her husband. They live together as a family, and he dotes on the baby, utterly in love. My daughter calls me every day, cries, says she can’t live like this. That every time her husband picks up their son, she wants to tell him everything. But she’s scared. Scared of losing her family, scared of his reaction, scared of being alone.

Tell me, what would you do in my place? Should I insist that my daughter confesses to her husband? Or is it her decision, and I have no right to interfere, even if I see her destroying herself from the inside?

****

My daughter called me from the maternity ward an hour after giving birth — her voice was shaking, she was sobbing uncontrollably. She begged me to come immediately, without explaining why. My heart was pounding wildly the entire way — what could have happened? I rushed into the room, out of breath. My daughter was sitting on the bed, pale, holding the newborn in her arms. When she saw me, she handed me the baby and whispered words that made my legs give way…
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