Two weeks later, the envelope landed on my doorstep. DNA results. I sat at the kitchen table with a stale muffin and ripped it open.
My chest squeezed tight.
Because I knew who the real father was. I folded the paper in half and slipped it into my purse like a loaded gun.
Two nights before that moment, Jack had been standing in that very hallway with his suitcase. He didn’t even look me in the eye.
I’d just nodded.
“Good luck, honey! This is not over.”
I pulled up in front of their new place right after sunset. The porch light was warm and fake, like every word they’d ever said to me.
I checked my purse. The DNA test rustled like a secret.
I raised my hand and knocked. Linda opened the door in a silk robe, lipstick fresh.
She froze when she saw me.
I pushed past her. “Where’s my husband?”
Jack came out of the kitchen with a beer.
He looked like a boy caught with his hand in the jar. I sat down on their brand-new white sofa.
Linda’s eyes darted to Jack.
“Jack,” I said, calm as ice. “You ever wonder whose son Tommy really is?”
His eyes narrowed.
“I don’t care. Don’t drag the kid into this.”
Linda lunged forward.
“Don’t you dare…”
Jack flipped it open. His lips moved over the words.
“Seventy percent? What does that mean?
He’s mine?” He looked up. “Linda, is he mine?!”
Jack barked, “Tell me the truth, Linda! Now!”Continue reading…
