“She finished nursing school,” Thomas said. “She’s raising Noah alone. He’s three now. Looks just like you did as a baby.”
I asked to see them.
“You’ll need another test first,” he said. “And even then, don’t expect forgiveness. You walked away.”
The Second Test
Finding Emma took weeks. When I finally sent a letter, she responded with a date and clinic. Nothing more.
The test was quick.
The results were not.
Probability of Paternity: 99.99%.
He had always been my son.
I sent apologies. Letters. Explanations.
Silence.
On his fourth birthday, I sent a card. It came back unopened.
That’s when I understood: healing sometimes requires distance from the person who caused the wound.
Watching From Afar
I drove past Noah’s school once.
I saw him laughing, backpack bouncing. Emma kneeling to hug him. Whole. Complete.
Without me.
I drove away before they noticed.
Living With the Truth
Therapy taught me what I already feared: I hadn’t left because of betrayal. I’d left because I couldn’t trust. I let fear masquerade as certainty.
I write letters to Noah I’ll probably never send. I contribute to a trust fund in his name. Quietly. Without expectation.
I live with the lesson carved into me: love cannot survive without trust.
If Noah ever asks why I left, I’ll tell him the truth.
