Looking down at my baby son as he wriggles and twists in my arms I think about all the things that a normal parent should be thinking: ‘what a beautiful boy’, ‘so much potential’, ‘I can’t wait until I no longer need to change his nappies’.

But I’m not thinking any of those things. From the back of my head blasts a fear that drowns out any other thoughts, asking a single question: Is this actually my kid?

I’m just not seeing the resemblance. My wife is white just like me but she has blue eyes and mine are hazel. This kid’s eyes are brown. I get that it’s a meme where every baby looks the same but I’m really just not seeing where my 50% genetic contribution is coming through.

I say as much to my friend Joel who says without the slightest hint of worry ‘just get a DNA test’.

‘Easier said than done’ I respond. Then I correct myself, ‘Actually it’s easier done than said. I’m not going to go and get a DNA test behind my wife’s back’

‘Then just tell her what’s up.’

‘JUST tell her what’s up?’ I respond, indignant.

‘Yeah. Just say listen I’ve got this nagging thought at the back of my head that won’t leave me alone that maybe it’s not my kid. It’s just an OCD thing that’ll go away once I’ve got certainty on it, it’s nothing to do with whether I trust you or not, so I’m gonna get a test. Bada bing, bada boom.’

I ponder on it for a bit. ‘That’s not a bad framing, and it’s also true. Even so, do I have the balls to broach the topic?’

As it turns out, I don’t have the balls. I instead just order a general DNA test that’s meant to catch all kinds of things like potential genetic issues that could crop up later in life, and my plan is to say I just asked for the whole enchilada and didn’t even realise that a paternity check was included.

So I find a stray blonde hair on the ground and post it in along with my own hair and then wait a couple weeks for a response. I get the call to come in to see one of their consultants and next thing I know I’m sitting in a clinic that is made to look especially lab-like, with a consultant who has gone so far as to wear a white lab coat.

‘I have good news and bad news’ He says. I brace for impact.

‘The good news is that we didn’t find any genetic markers of disease down the line, so your boy will be relatively healthy assuming no injuries. The bad news is that your son… is ugly, and will remain so throughout his life. His face resembles a dog’s moreso than a humans. He also has much lower IQ than average, and will never be capable of speaking english, or walking on two legs’.

He passes a sheet of paper to me which shows a computer-rendered prediction of what my son will look like as an adult and it looks like they put a golden retriever’s head on a human torso.

‘Is it possible I just accidentally sent you a hair from my golden retriever instead of my son?’ I ask.

The consultant looks at the sheet, then over his shoulder to his computer screen which has a spreadsheet of results from the test, then back at the sheet, then up at me. ‘I know this news is hard to hear, and you’re looking for something which discredits it. But these tests are very accurate’

‘So are polyjuice potions but that didn’t stop Hermione from looking like a half-human half-cat when she took one with her cat’s hair in it!’ I snap back.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know that reference,’ He responds, ‘but, if you’re upset, there may be cause for celebration because you are not the father’.

‘OBVIOUSLY!’ I yell. ‘I’m not paying you’.

‘You get a full medicare rebate so you won’t be out of pocket for anything’

‘You should be the one paying me, for wasting my time. That’s my fucking dog you idiot!’.

‘Woah’, he exclaims in a look of shock, ‘It’s one thing to call a spade a spade and say he looks a bit like a dog but if you’re actually treating this kid as if they were a dog, that’s a matter of childhood abuse’.

‘Then I guess I’m an abuser. Go fuck yourself’. I storm out. On the way home I think to myself On the bright side, it’s good to know my dog doesn’t have any dormant genetic disorders on the horizon.

The next week I hear a knock on the door and hear my wife go to open it, followed by her scream. I race down the hall to see what’s going on: it’s a man and a woman from the Child Protection Service.

‘We received a tip that there is a child in this household who is a victim of abuse, and while we investigate we’ll be taking custody of the child’.

The officer walks into the house towards our kid, then walks straight past him to pick up our golden retriever. ‘This matches the description’ he says. He realises that the dog had just been eating dog biscuits from his bowl and the man’s face darkens as he looks back at my wife and I with an expression of disgust.

The officers put the dog in their van and then drive away.

‘What the fuck just happened?’ my wife yells.

I’m too exhausted to lie. ‘I got our boy a DNA test because I wanted to make sure I was the father and I accidentally used our dog’s hair so the guy at the clinic was telling me about our dog as if he was my son and I told him to go fuck himself so he would have called the childhood protection people. I should have told you about the DNA test but was too scared to, because I was afraid of you freaking out at a lack of trust or commitment from me, and I apologise.’

‘Right’ she responds, and a long silence follows.

My wife ends up going to the CPS office to resolve the situation, and the moment she’s out the door I pull a pair of scissors out of the cutlery drawer and take a sample of our son’s hair.

Fast forward and I’m in another clinic with another guy in a lab coat.

‘Good news and bad news’ he says. ‘Good news: you are the father. Bad news, your boy has a strong genetic predisposition to OCD. He’ll likely be a sufferer for life, and it’s going to take a toll on his mental health and relationships’.

‘No shit’ I respond. ‘Listen, that clinic down the road, would you say you’re direct competitors with them?’

‘Yes, I suppose I would say that’ he admits.

‘I’m thinking of sending them a letter bomb. Are you in?’

He steeples his fingers and gazes pensively out the window to the clinic down the road, then responds. ‘I’m in’.