While traveling abroad, a man in his late 60s ended up with three young women claiming to be pregnant at the same time — but the DNA test results left him stunned…
Arthur Miles had never imagined himself boarding a plane at sixty-eight years old, carrying nothing but a worn leather suitcase and a doctor’s warning that he was “too stressed for a man his age.” His wife had died seven years earlier, his only son lived across the country, and retirement had left him feeling like a house with all the lights turned off.
So when his neighbor pushed a glossy brochure into his hands—European Heritage Tours for Seniors—Arthur booked a ticket before he could talk himself out of it.
“I’m not going to find myself,” he told his son on the phone.
“I’m going because the alternative is sitting in the same recliner until the fabric molds to my body.”
He said it as a joke.
But everyone knew it wasn’t.
The trip was supposed to be simple: ten days, seven cities, historical sites, comfortable hotels, and arguments with his roommate, Norman, about who snored louder.
What Arthur didn’t expect was that three different young women—none older than thirty—would approach him during the tour, each claiming to be pregnant with his child.
And that the truth would be stranger than anything he had ever lived through.
It started in Prague.
Arthur and his tour group were crossing the Charles Bridge, admiring the statues and the river glowing gold in the afternoon sun. He walked a little slower than the others, hands clasped behind his back. He loved the view. It reminded him of a painting his wife once kept in their hallway.
That’s when a petite brunette approached him, her eyes wide with something like relief… or desperation.
“You’re Mr. Arthur Miles, yes?” she asked in accented English.
Arthur blinked. “I am.”
She exhaled shakily. “Oh thank God. I’ve been looking for you. I’m… I’m pregnant. And the child is yours.”
Arthur almost swallowed his tongue.
Norman, standing beside him, dropped his camera.
People around them froze.
Arthur recovered first. “Miss, you must have me confused with someone else.”
“No,” she insisted, voice trembling. “I met you last spring. You remember? At the hotel in… in Marseille.”
“I’ve never been to Marseille,” Arthur managed.
The brunette’s face crumpled. “But I was told—”
Suddenly a man in a black jacket rushed forward and grabbed her arm.
“Leave him alone,” the man barked in Czech. “You shouldn’t be bothering tourists.”
He pulled her away before Arthur could ask anything else.
The tour group buzzed with whispers for the next hour, but Arthur brushed it off as a bizarre misunderstanding.
He had no idea it was only the beginning.
In Vienna, two days later, it happened again.
This time it was a tall blonde outside the Schönbrunn Palace. She ran straight toward him, breathless and terrified.
“Sir! Sir, please!” she cried. “They told me… they said you would help. I don’t know where else to go.”
Arthur stiffened. “Help with what?”
She pressed a shaking hand to her stomach. “The baby. Your baby.”
Norman choked on his pretzel.
Arthur raised both palms. “Ma’am, this is ridiculous. You’ve made a mistake.”
“No!” she insisted. “You don’t remember, do you? The summer festival in Barcelona?”
“I’ve never been to Barcelona!”
Before she could answer, a pair of uniformed officers approached, murmured something in German, and escorted her away. She kept looking back at Arthur with pleading eyes, like she knew something he didn’t.
He felt uneasy for the rest of the day.
That night, in the hotel room, Norman eyed him suspiciously.
“You got some kind of secret life I don’t know about?”
Arthur glared. “At sixty-eight? With my cholesterol? Don’t be ridiculous.”
But deep down, something tugged at him—a cold knot of confusion.
And fear.
The third incident happened in Rome.
And this time, the woman wasn’t desperate.
She was angry.
The group was resting near the Trevi Fountain when a young woman with dark curls and fire in her expression marched straight toward him like a missile locked onto its target.
“You’re Arthur Miles?”
“Yes, but—”
Slap.
The sound cracked across the piazza. Tourists turned. Pigeons scattered.
“Did you think you could run?” she hissed. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you? You left me pregnant and alone!”
Arthur staggered backward. “Miss, I swear I don’t know you!”
“You were staying at the Hotel Aurelia in Naples. You were kind, charming, generous—”
“I’ve never been to Naples!”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”
“I am not!”
But she didn’t believe him.
Two Italian policemen came over. They spoke to her quietly before guiding her away.
This time, she didn’t cry.
She glared.
As if she knew a truth he refused to admit.
That night, Arthur couldn’t sleep.
He sat on the hotel balcony staring at the Roman rooftops glowing under the moon.
“This is insane,” he muttered to himself. “Three women. Three countries. Three claims.”
The facts didn’t line up.
But the fear did.
What if someone was using his identity?
What if these women were victims too?
What if something far worse—and far stranger—was happening?
He decided he needed answers.
So he called his son, Ethan, who worked in cybersecurity.
“You’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you,” Arthur said.
When he finished the story, Ethan was silent for a long moment.
“Dad,” Ethan finally said, “I need you to send me everything. Names. Descriptions. Dates. Anything you remember.”
Arthur did.
Two days later, Ethan called back with a voice tight with alarm.
“Dad. You need to come home. Now.”
Back in the States, Arthur went straight from the airport to Ethan’s office. His son looked pale, sitting amid piles of printouts and a monitor full of spreadsheets.
“Dad,” Ethan said, “someone has been using your identity online. Not your financial info—your personal info.”
“My… personal info?”
“Yes. Your photos. Your old social media posts. They even deepfaked your voice.”
Ethan pulled up a video.
Arthur felt his stomach drop.
There he was—or someone who looked and sounded exactly like him—laughing, flirting, joking with a woman in a bar.
Then another video.
And another.
In each one, the man claimed to be “retired, wealthy, and looking for companionship.”
“They’re scams,” Ethan said. “Romance scams targeted at young women overseas. And the scammer chose your face because you look harmless. Safe. Trustworthy.”
Arthur sank into a chair. “My God.”
“Dad… these women aren’t lying. They believe everything they said.”
Arthur pressed his palms to his forehead. “But the pregnancy—”
“We’re running DNA tests,” Ethan said. “All three women agreed, once they learned the truth. They want answers as much as you do.”
Arthur closed his eyes.
He felt violated.
Not physically—emotionally.
Someone had turned him into a character in a nightmare he never wrote.
The DNA results arrived two weeks later.
Arthur sat with his son in the small lab office as the technician handed over three envelopes.
His hands shook.
He opened the first.
Then the second.
Then the third.
All results were the same:
0% probability of paternity.
Arthur exhaled for the first time in weeks. His body slumped back, relief flooding through him like warm water.
The technician cleared her throat. “Mr. Miles… there is something else.”
Arthur looked up.
“These three women are not related. But all three babies share DNA with the same unknown father.”
Arthur blinked. “What?”
Ethan’s eyes widened. “You mean one scammer… impregnated all three?”
“No,” the technician said slowly. “Based on the profile, the father is older. Mid-forties to early sixties. And the genetic markers suggest… he might be related to Mr. Miles.”
Arthur froze.
Ethan froze.
The room went silent.
Then Ethan whispered,
“Dad… this isn’t about identity theft.”
Arthur’s heartbeat thudded in his ears.
“This is about family.”
The truth emerged piece by piece.
Twenty years earlier, Arthur had discovered—by accident—that his late older brother, Ronald, had donated genetic material at multiple clinics during the 1970s. He’d done it privately, quietly, never explaining why.
“Easy money,” he once joked.
But no one knew the number of clinics.
No one knew the number of donations.
No one knew how far they had been sent.
Until now.
Because the biological father of the three unborn children wasn’t Arthur.
It was Ronald’s biological son—one of the countless half siblings created through a donation Arthur never knew existed.
A man who looked remarkably like Arthur at age forty.
A man who had unknowingly inherited his father’s wandering charm… and his secrecy.
The scam wasn’t a scam.
It was confusion.
Misconnection.
A genetic ghost wearing Arthur’s face.
“We found him,” Ethan said a week later, handing Arthur a folder. “He’s real. He’s cooperative. And he wants to meet.”
Arthur opened the folder.
Inside was a photo of a man in his forties with Arthur’s jawline, Arthur’s nose, Arthur’s smile.
A stranger.
And yet… not a stranger at all.
Beside the photo were three ultrasound images.
Arthur swallowed hard.
Not fear this time.
Something softer.
Something like responsibility.
The meeting took place in a quiet café in Seattle.
The man’s name was Daniel.
He stood when Arthur walked in.
The resemblance was undeniable.
“Mr. Miles,” Daniel said awkwardly. “Thank you for coming.”
“Call me Arthur,” he replied, extending his hand.
Daniel shook it, eyes damp. “I… I didn’t know. About your brother. About… all this.”
“I didn’t either,” Arthur said gently. “Life has a strange way of surprising us.”
They talked for hours.
Daniel explained that he’d traveled through Europe the previous year, genuinely searching for connection, unaware that the genetic resemblance would cause confusion.
“I never meant to hurt anyone,” he said quietly. “Least of all you.”
Arthur believed him.
In Daniel’s voice, in his gestures, he saw threads of Ronald—kindness, restlessness, charm. Pieces of a brother he once loved deeply.
Near the end of the conversation, Daniel hesitated. “The women… the babies… I want to be there for them. Even if things didn’t start the right way.”
Arthur nodded slowly.
“You should be,” he said. “Every child deserves someone who shows up.”
Daniel looked relieved.
“Would it… would it be alright if they knew about you? Eventually?”
Arthur smiled—a small, fragile smile that felt like a bridge between generations.
“If they ever want to meet me,” he said softly, “I’ll be here.”
Three months later, Arthur received a package.
Inside were three newborn photos.
And a note:
“They will grow up knowing the truth.
And knowing the good man who helped us find it.
Thank you, Arthur.”
Arthur placed the photos beside his wife’s picture.
His house no longer felt dark.
Or empty.
Instead, it felt full of life he never expected—life he didn’t create, but somehow belonged to him anyway.
Not by blood.
But by choice.
And sometimes, Arthur realized…
Choice was the stronger bond.
