I was wrong.
One afternoon, she arrived unannounced, her face tense, her movements sharp. In her hand was an envelope she clutched like evidence in a trial. She didn’t sit. She didn’t greet us.
She announced—loudly—that she had proof.
Proof that I had been unfaithful. Proof that Nathan was not my husband’s child.
She waved the DNA test results as if victory was already hers.
The room went completely still.
I didn’t react the way she expected. I didn’t panic. I didn’t argue. Instead, I calmly reached into a drawer and placed my own envelope on the table.
I told her she should read those results.
They confirmed exactly what I had always known—and what my husband had never doubted. Nathan was his son. Without question.
Her confidence shattered instantly. The color drained from her face.
