“These are medical records,” I said. “From before the birth. From the hospital. From years ago.”
His hands trembled as he opened the envelope.
The truth inside wasn’t dramatic or scandalous.
It was medical.
Years before my pregnancy, I had been diagnosed with a rare genetic condition. One I had told him about, though he hadn’t paid much attention at the time. A condition that could cause dormant genetic traits to express themselves strongly in children.
It wasn’t common.
But it was documented.
The final page stopped him cold.
A paternity test ordered by the hospital, completed after he fled, and never delivered because he was gone.
Probability of paternity: 99.99 percent.
The papers slipped from his hands.
“No,” he whispered. “That can’t be true.”
But it was.
All five children were his.
He collapsed into a chair, covering his face as sobs shook his body.
“I destroyed everything,” he cried. “I believed my own fear instead of the woman I married.”
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