My mother-in-law suddenly declared, “This baby isn’t truly from our family.” The room fell silent. My husband looked shocked. I just smiled. That’s when the doctor came in with the results and said, “There’s something you must know.”
She looked right at me. Not at the baby, not at her son, but at me. “This baby can’t be our blood.”
The world went quiet. I tightened my arms around my daughter, Luna, a tiny, warm miracle. I saw my husband, Caleb, turn to me, his face a canvas of slow-dawning confusion, as if he’d just woken up inside someone else’s life.
But I just smiled. It wasn’t the tired, happy smile of a new mother. It was a smile forged in years of silent dinners. It was the kind of smile that says, I see you. I see exactly what you are doing, and the game is over.
Because this wasn’t a surprise. I had seen this coming for months. I knew she was looking for a weapon to finally drive a wedge between me and her son. So, I had prepared. Two weeks ago, during a routine amniocentesis, I had asked the doctor to run one extra, private test. I had set a trap, baited with the truth. And Vivien had just walked right into it.
She turned her icy gaze on me. “If you have nothing to hide, then you won’t have a problem with a paternity test.”
Just then, the door to the hospital room clicked open, and Dr. Evans stepped inside, a manila folder in his hand. He looked at the scene—at Vivien, triumphant; at Caleb, lost and confused; at me, calm and waiting.
“I have the results of the additional genetic panel you requested, Mrs. Monroe,” he said, his voice professional and clear. He opened the folder.
Vivien smirked, ready for her victory. Caleb held his breath, ready for the verdict.
The doctor looked down at the paper, then his eyes found mine. He cleared his throat. “Actually,” he said, turning his gaze to my stunned mother-in-law, “there’s something about your own family’s genetic history that you apparently don’t know.”
