After my divorce, I chose to become a single mom through sperm donation. I wanted a child—not another relationship—and soon gave birth to my son, Alan. Life was full, and I was content raising him alone.
Eight years later, we returned to my hometown when my mom got sick. That’s when I noticed the strange stares. Friends looked at Alan like they’d seen a ghost. Then I ran into Jude—my oldest friend—and everything clicked. Alan looked exactly like him.
I had undergone insemination shortly after my farewell party, where drinks flowed and memories blurred. Jude was shocked. So was I.
We agreed to a DNA test. I had truly believed Alan was donor-conceived, but maybe I’d unknowingly written a very different story.
If Jude is Alan’s father, everything changes. But maybe it’s time I stopped running—and started rewriting what family means.