“We adopted a three-year-old boy — and when my husband tried to bathe him for the first time, he screamed: We have to return him”

I’ve been married for ten years. After many long years of trying to have a child, we decided to turn to adoption. My husband, very busy with work, couldn’t really get involved in the process, so I took it all on myself: I contacted the agencies, filled out the paperwork, and reviewed the profiles of children waiting for a home.

At first, we wanted to adopt an infant, but the demand was overwhelming. Then one day, I came across the photo of a three-year-old boy who had been abandoned by his mother. His big blue eyes immediately touched my heart.

When I showed the photo to my husband, he fell in love with the child too. We decided to name him Sam. After much discussion, we felt ready to take this big step.

A month later, after the formalities, Sam arrived at our home. I was overjoyed! My husband, visibly excited at the idea of becoming a father, even offered to give him his first bath to create a bond with him. I was so happy to see him involved.

But less than a minute after entering the bathroom with Sam, he came running out in a panic, shouting:
“We have to return him!”
His panic seemed inexplicable—until I noticed something strange…

The Road to Adoption

“Are you feeling nervous?” I asked Mark as we drove to the agency. I clutched a small blue sweater I had bought especially for Sam, imagining how well it would fit, wrapping his fragile shoulders in soft warmth.

“Me? Not at all,” he replied, though his tense hands on the wheel betrayed his calm façade. “I just hope everything goes smoothly. This traffic is driving me nuts.”

He was drumming the dashboard with growing anxiety — a tic I had recently noticed in him.

“You’ve checked the car seat a dozen times,” I said with a gentle smile. “I think you’re the one who’s most nervous.”

“Of course I’m nervous!” I said as I stroked the sweater’s fabric. “We’ve waited so long for this day.”

Meeting Sam

The adoption process was exhausting: countless hours filling out forms, home inspections, interviews, while Mark buried himself deeper in his work. That’s why I spent so much time searching for the perfect child’s photo on the agency website. Then I saw Sam — a little boy with summer-sky-blue eyes and a smile that could melt ice. His mother had abandoned him, and in his gaze, I saw not just sadness, but a mysterious strength.

One evening, I showed the photo to Mark on the tablet. His face lit up with a soft smile. “He’s a beautiful child. Those eyes… they’re special.”

But doubts crept in: “Will we be good enough?” I asked.

“Of course,” he reassured me, squeezing my shoulder. “No matter his age, I know you’ll be an amazing mother.”

The First Meeting

After all the formalities, the social worker, Mrs. Chen, welcomed us and led us to a small playroom. There, among colorful blocks, Sam was building a tower with great focus.

“Sam, remember the nice couple we talked about? They’re here,” said Mrs. Chen softly.
I knelt beside him, my heart pounding. “Hi Sam, that’s a beautiful tower! Would you like some help?”

He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded and handed me a red block. That small gesture seemed to mark the beginning of something big.

Home and the First Crack

On the way home, in silence, Sam tightly hugged his stuffed elephant, making little funny noises that made Mark smile. I couldn’t believe this fragile little boy was now ours. At home, I began unpacking his few belongings. The small bag he arrived with seemed too light to hold an entire childhood.

“I’ll give him his bath,” Mark offered. “You can finish setting up his room.”
“Perfect, don’t forget the bath toys,” I replied happily.

But the joy lasted only forty-seven seconds.

A piercing scream echoed from the bathroom. I ran down the hall and saw Mark, pale as a ghost, dashing out.

“What do you mean ‘return him’? We just adopted him! He’s not an item to return to the store!” I held back tears.

Mark paced nervously, running his hands through his hair, breathing heavily.

“I realize I can’t accept him as my son. It was a mistake,” he said, avoiding my gaze.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “You were laughing with him just hours ago in the car, mimicking the elephant sounds! Why now?”

“I don’t know… I can’t connect with him,” he said, trembling, eyes downcast.

I walked into the bathroom. Sam, confused, was almost fully dressed except for his socks and shoes. He clutched his elephant tightly.

“Hey sweetheart,” I smiled through the pain. “Let’s get you clean, okay? Maybe Mr. Elephant wants to join too?”

Sam whispered, “He’s afraid of water.”

“That’s okay, he can just watch,” I said, placing the toy on the shelf. Then I gently bathed him, trying to bring back some joy.

As I looked at his little leg, I noticed a birthmark identical to the one I had seen on Mark’s leg during summer pool days. My heart raced, and troubling thoughts flooded my mind.

“You’ve got magic bubbles,” said Sam, joyfully tapping the foam I had added.
“They’re special bubbles,” I whispered, watching him play. His smile seemed strangely familiar.

Truth and Change

Late that night, after putting Sam to bed, I found Mark in our room. The space between us on the bed felt like a canyon.

“The birthmark on his leg — it’s exactly like yours,” I said quietly.

Mark froze, removed his watch, then laughed hoarsely: “It’s just a coincidence. Lots of people have birthmarks.”
“I want a DNA test,” I said firmly.
“That’s ridiculous,” he snapped, turning away. “You’re letting your imagination run wild. It’s been a hard day.”

But his reaction spoke volumes. The next day, while Mark was at work, I discreetly collected a few strands of his hair from his brush and a saliva sample from Sam while brushing his teeth — under the pretext of a dental checkup.

Waiting for the results was agony. Mark grew more distant, spending all day at the office, while I grew closer to Sam. A few days later, he began calling me “mom,” and every time he said it, it warmed my heart despite the uncertainty.

We settled into a family rhythm: morning pancakes, bedtime stories, park walks where he’d collect tiny treasures — leaves and rocks for his windowsill.

Two weeks later, the results confirmed my suspicion: Mark was Sam’s biological father. Sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the paper, I could hear Sam’s laughter outside as he played with his bubble wand.

“It happened one night,” Mark eventually confessed. “I was drunk at a conference. I didn’t even know… I never thought it could happen.” He reached out, his face twisted with pain. “Please, let’s try to fix this. I promise I’ll change.”

I stepped back, my voice cold: “You panicked when you saw that birthmark. That’s why you ran.”

“Forgive me,” he whispered, slumping into a chair. “Seeing him in the bath brought it all back. That woman… I don’t even remember her name. I was so ashamed, I tried to forget.”

“Four years ago, while I was on fertility treatments? Crying each month from failure?” Every word was a blade.

The next day, I consulted Janet, an experienced lawyer, who confirmed that as Sam’s legal adoptive mother, I had full parental rights. Mark had no legal custody.

That night, while Sam slept peacefully, I told Mark: “I’m filing for divorce and seeking sole custody of Sam.”
“His mother already abandoned him — and you almost did the same,” I said harshly. “I won’t let our son be abandoned a second time.”

Mark lowered his head. “I love you.”

“Love that can’t be honest means nothing. You only ever loved yourself.”

Mark said nothing. The divorce was quick. Sam, despite everything, adjusted well, though he sometimes asked why his father no longer lived with us.

“Sometimes adults make mistakes,” I’d say as I stroked his hair, “but that doesn’t mean they don’t love you.”
It was the kindest truth I could give him.

A New Chapter

Years passed, and Sam grew into a wonderful young man. Mark sometimes sends cards and occasional letters, but remains distant — a choice that’s his, not mine.

People often ask if I regret not leaving when I discovered the truth. I shake my head.
Sam is no longer an adopted child — he is my son, despite the biological complexity and the betrayal.
Love is never simple, but it always demands a choice.
I vowed never to leave him — except maybe, one day, to his future bride.