I sat there staring at the words, feeling vindicated and destroyed at the same time. I had been right—and it felt unbearable. Everything we’d built collapsed into meaninglessness. The child I’d prepared to love wasn’t mine. The marriage was a lie.
Inside, Emma was making lunch. The baby slept nearby. She looked at me and knew.
“The results came,” I said.
She swallowed. “And?”
“Zero percent. He’s not my son.”
She closed her eyes. “Marcus—”
“I don’t want explanations,” I snapped. “I’ve already contacted a lawyer. I’ll be gone by the end of the week.”
“You won’t even listen?” Her voice cracked. “You won’t let me explain anything?”
“Explain what? That you cheated? That you lied? Nothing changes what that paper says.”
She studied me, and something hardened in her expression.
“You decided who I was long before the test,” she said quietly. “The test just gave you permission.”
I didn’t answer. Because part of me knew she was right. I’d been suspicious for months. Reading betrayal into harmless moments. But I clung to the test. Science didn’t lie.
I left three days later. Filed for divorce. Blocked her everywhere. Told friends she cheated. Anyone who questioned me got cut off.
