“No,” I interrupt. “I need to know.”
But my body won’t cooperate. My thumb stays frozen above the phone.
Once I open this email, one of those paths goes dark forever.
And I’m not ready.
I’m not ready to let go of Caleb or accept that what we had—those few perfect months when I was his and he was mine—might be all I ever get.
“Babe.” Z’s hand covers mine on the phone. “Whatever it says, we’re going to be okay. You and me. We’ve survived worse than this.”
Have we, though? I don’t know anymore.
Enough.
My thumb moves before I can stop it.
Tap.
The email opens.
I scan the professional, generic text.
Your recent Non-Invasive Prenatal Paternity Test has been processed. Attached you will find the final laboratory report for your review.
My heart hammers so hard I can feel it in my throat and in my fingertips as I click the damn attachment.
The PDF loads slowly—too slowly, like the universe is giving me one last chance to back out, close the app, and pretend I never saw the notification.
But then it’s there.
My eyes scan frantically, looking for?—
Alleged Father Information
Name: Zedekiah Dawson
No.
No no no.
My gaze jumps down, desperate, searching for Caleb’s name somewhere—anywhere—in this document. For some kind ofmistake. For evidence that they tested the wrong person, or mixed up the samples, or?—
Probability of Paternity: >99.9%
The words blur, and my head refuses to process the words. But my eyes drop back to the numbers.
Zedekiah Dawson. 99.9%
I read the page again, from top to bottom. And again.
Like if I just stare long enough, the words and numbers will rearrange themselves into something different.
But they don’t change.
Z is the father.
Not Caleb.