“A paternity test.” My voice was flat. “I need to know if the baby is mine.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. I could hear the hallway clock ticking. Our son’s soft breaths. My pulse roaring in my ears. Emma’s expression shifted—confusion giving way to pain, then disbelief, and finally something I couldn’t name. Something like acceptance.
“And if he isn’t yours?” she asked quietly.
That question landed like a confession. My chest tightened.
“Then I file for divorce,” I said harshly. “I won’t raise another man’s child.”
She nodded slowly. “Alright. If that’s what you need.”
She took the kit from my hand and walked out of the nursery, leaving me alone with a sleeping infant and a sense of victory that felt strangely empty.
The Envelope
Five days. That’s how long it took for the results to arrive. Five days of living like strangers in the same house. Emma cared for our baby with robotic efficiency, speaking only when necessary. I told myself her silence meant guilt. That she was preparing for exposure. That I’d been right.
When the envelope finally arrived, I opened it alone in my car, parked in our driveway. My hands shook as I unfolded the paper.
Probability of Paternity: 0%.
Marcus Jerome Patterson is excluded as the biological father.
Zero.
Not mine.
