We went home, but it wasn’t together. Alex said he needed “space.” He moved back in with his parents, leaving me alone with a newborn and a house filled with silence.
My sister Emily showed up the next day, eyes fierce and voice firm. She cleaned bottles, changed diapers, and sat with me through the long, aching nights. She never asked questions. She simply showed up.
Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass.
“If that baby isn’t Alex’s, you’ll get nothing from this family. Not a penny.”
I hung up in tears. I hadn’t cheated. Ever. But suddenly, I wasn’t a wife or a mother — I was the accused.
The Results — and the Fallout
Two weeks later, Alex returned. He sat across from me in the living room, the unopened envelope in his hands.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t flinch.
He opened it. His eyes scanned the page.
“She’s yours,” I said quietly, bitterness laced through every syllable. “Like I told you.”
He looked up, defensive.
“You think this was easy for me?”
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