It happened on a Tuesday. We were having dinner, me and John. I warmed up yesterday’s potatoes with chicken.
He ate in silence, abruptly, as always. And suddenly, between two bites, as if in passing, he dropped it. «I’ve been doubting for a while, Sarah.
I think it’s time to do a paternity test.» At first, I thought he was joking. Fifteen years we’ve been raising Michael together.
Sleepless nights when he had colic. First steps, fractures, school crafts. Fifteen years we were a team.
Or was it just me who thought so? «Are you out of your mind?» I laughed. But he didn’t smile. His jaw clenched.
The fork clattered loudly against the plate. He didn’t lift his eyes. «What do you mean?» I asked cautiously. «Exactly what I said.
There were reasons to doubt. It’s time to find out.» I didn’t even know what shocked me more—the fact that he doubted, or the cold composure with which he said it.
As if we were discussing a tax return or, I don’t know, choosing a new vacuum cleaner. John and I met when I was twenty-eight. I’d had my fill of passions and was looking for stability.
He was reliable, even if not romantic. The type who pays bills on time and helps with cleaning every Sunday. A year after the wedding, Michael was born.
Everything went without complications. He was there in the delivery room, even cried when he first held him. I remember it well; he didn’t even cry at his mother’s funeral.
And now this. I didn’t scream, didn’t ask «How dare you?» That night, I just lay next to him in bed, staring at the ceiling fan. Counted the rotations of the blades. After 15 years of raising our son together, my husband said: «I’ve always doubted. Time for a DNA test.» I laughed… until the results came. The doctor looked at me and seriously said: «You’d better sit down.»
I listened to his even breathing, as if he hadn’t just derailed our whole life. Two days later, we were sitting in a private lab. The nurse was overly friendly.
I even wondered how she saw us. As nervous parents. As a woman suspected of cheating.
Or a man tired of trusting. When Michael asked why he had to go to the doctor with us, John said «Just routine checkups.» I stayed silent.
Didn’t tell my sister Emily, who calls me every evening. Or my friend Jessica, who always has an opinion about guys. Or Michael’s pediatrician, who’s known him since he was two…
Just stayed silent and waited. They promised results in seven days, but it dragged on to nine. Every minute pressed like a bag of cement on my shoulders.
John barely talked. Left for work early, came back late. Ate in silence.
No hello, no goodnight. The air between us became like a hospital ward. Sterile and alien.
On the fifth day, I couldn’t take it and asked. «What exactly made you doubt?» He didn’t even look up from the sports section. «A couple of things.
Doesn’t matter now. We’ll know soon.» It wasn’t the answer that alarmed me, but how he gave it.
There was something foreign, cold. As if he’d already decided. And I started replaying in my head everything that could have led him to think that.
Someone said something. Someone compared. Maybe one of his friends blurted out that Michael doesn’t look like him.
But he does look like him. The same chin dimple. The same curly hair.
Even the expression when he’s angry. Just like John’s. Nevertheless, something made him doubt.
When I finally told Emily about it, she immediately recalled the incident with John’s ex and that story with the music teacher. He was already suffering from paranoia back then. Didn’t trust anyone, not even himself.
«Some wounds don’t heal,» she said. «They just scab over, and it takes just a little poke. And blood again.»
Emily offered to come over, but I refused. I didn’t want anyone entering our house while this tension hung in the air. It felt like even the walls were trembling from the unspoken.
Michael changed too. Became quieter, more thoughtful. At dinner, he poked at his plate, as if waiting for the peas to tell him what was wrong.
«Is Dad mad at you?» he asked quietly, almost in a whisper. «No, honey,» I lied. «He’s just tired.»
I started watching John more closely. How he goes to the garage to check the car, but keeps looking at his phone. How he slams the laptop shut as soon as I enter the room.
And he used to share everything, even his boring office spreadsheets, articles about repairs we never got around to. One day I couldn’t stand it and tried to open his laptop. It had a password now.
It didn’t before. In the morning when the results were due, I couldn’t even drink my coffee. It sat on the table, cooling, while I bit my lips and clenched my fingers.
Michael was at school. Thank God. John and I drove to the lab in silence.
He gripped the steering wheel tightly, confidently. I had my hands in my lap, nails digging into palms. At reception, the woman smiled too brightly.
«Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, please come in.» The doctor sat at the desk with a face like he was about to announce the world was running out of oxygen. He didn’t rush.
First asked. «Are you ready for what you might hear?» I glanced at John. He didn’t even blink.
«Yes,» he said, «and I couldn’t.» My throat felt tied with rope. The doctor opened the folder with the results.
Page by page, as if counting heartbeats. According to the analysis, he paused and placed his finger on the line. Probability of paternity—0%.
My ears rang. Hands went cold. For a moment, it seemed my heart just vanished…
