For a few seconds, I genuinely couldn’t process what was happening. I just stared at her. My brain lagged behind the moment, as if it refused to accept the absurdity of it. She was holding a sheet of paper in her hand, a DNA test, and waving it at me as if she had just solved some grand criminal conspiracy.
“She’s not yours,” Camila declared, her voice sharp and triumphant. “You’ve been lied to. You’re raising another man’s child.”
Behind her, my daughter, Lisa, clutched the hem of my shirt. I could feel her small fingers trembling.
And then, somehow, I laughed.
It was not because anything about the situation was funny. It was the kind of laughter that bursts out when something is so wildly inappropriate, so disconnected from reality, that your mind does not know what else to do.
Camila’s face flushed crimson. “What’s so funny?”
I wiped at my eyes and let out a slow breath. “You went behind my back and did a DNA test on my daughter without my consent. What exactly did you think you were? Some undercover investigator?”
Her mouth tightened, but her gaze flickered down to Lisa.
