And when the results came back, one of us would learn a lesson neither of us would ever forget.
They transferred me to a quieter room after Ethan stormed out.
A hospital social worker stopped by later, speaking gently but asking direct questions. “Do you feel safe?” she asked. “Has he behaved like this before?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to protect the version of my life where Ethan was simply stressed, simply overwhelmed, simply not himself.
But the truth had been building for months.
Ethan had grown obsessed with “signs.” A coworker joking about babies not looking like their fathers. A podcast about cheating spouses. The way he began checking my phone location “for safety,” then getting angry when I questioned it.
Still, yelling “DNA test” over a newborn was something else entirely—public, cruel, deliberate.
Deliberate.
That word stayed in my head.
The following day Ethan returned with his brother, wearing a tight smile like he was trying to appear reasonable.
“I’m not accusing you,” he lied. “I’m just asking for clarity.”
