It started as an ordinary evening. Dinner was mac and cheese, cartoons hummed in the background, and my six-year-old Layla curled up against me, her hair still scented with bubblegum shampoo. To make bedtime more fun, I suggested hide-and-seek.
Her reaction startled me. She froze, tugging nervously at her pajama hem, her eyes flicking toward the garage. “I don’t think I should,” she whispered.
“Why not?” I asked gently. Her answer left me uneasy. “Last time I hid with Daddy, he got mad.”
Stephen, mad?
He’s never harsh with her. “What do you mean?” I pressed, keeping my voice light even as my stomach tightened. She leaned closer.
“I hid in the garage. I got bored and opened one of his boxes. Daddy grabbed it really fast and said, ‘If Mommy sees this, we’ll be in big trouble.
We don’t want her to find it.’ Then he told me never to hide in the garage again.”
I kissed her forehead, told her to pick a safe spot, and we played anyway. I forced laughter, let her win, but the knot in my chest only grew. When the house was finally quiet, I slipped into the garage.
The air was heavy with dust and oil. I searched through stacked bins—holiday decorations, baby clothes, tools. Nothing unusual.
Until I found one box in the far corner. Its tape was new, its edges crisp, unlike the worn cardboard around it. Inside were baby keepsakes: a stuffed bear, a tiny pair of sneakers, a faded onesie.
My throat tightened. But at the bottom, hidden beneath it all, was a manila folder. My hands trembled as I opened it.
A single sheet of paper stared back. A paternity test. Stephen: 0% probability of paternity.
Maternal match: 100%. Dated five years ago. When Layla was one.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath me. My breath came shallow, ragged. The past I thought I had buried was staring me in the face.
I remembered that night years ago: rain pounding against the office windows, exhaustion blurring judgment. Ethan, a co-worker, had made me laugh when I hadn’t in weeks. One kiss turned into more, and by the time the storm cleared, I convinced myself it was nothing.
A month later, I found out I was pregnant. Stephen and I had been trying, so I never dared do the math. I tucked away the possibility like a secret too dangerous to name.
But Stephen had. At some point, he wondered. He tested.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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