The birth of our child should have been pure joy, but for my wife and me—both white—it began with disbelief. As our baby was placed in her arms, my wife cried out, “This isn’t mine! How could she be Black?”
Her words sent a chill through the room. Relatives exchanged uneasy glances before leaving us alone. I stood there, torn between confusion and love. Then I looked at our daughter—her tiny nose, her perfect lips—and knew she was ours.
“It doesn’t matter,” I told my wife. “We’re her parents.” Slowly, she nodded, tears in her eyes. Later, we learned about hidden African roots in her family, a beautiful surprise we never expected.
Now, our daughter is the heart of our home, teaching us daily that love transcends all differences. No matter what, I’ll always stand by my family.
