A man lies on his deathbed, surrounded by his family: a weeping wife and four children.
Three of the children are tall, good-looking and athletic, but the fourth and youngest is an ugly runt.
“Darling wife,” the husband whispers, “assure me that the youngest child really is mine.
I want to know the truth before I die, I will forgive you if-” The wife gently interrupts him.
“Yes, my dearest, absolutely, no question, I swear on my mother’s grave that you are his father.”
The man then dies, happy.
“Thank God he didn’t ask about the other three.” Muttered the wife.