“Your real father can pay for yours.”
So I took out loans. I worked double shifts at a diner. I graduated six years later with $60,000 in debt and a degree I’d earned without his help.
The worst part wasn’t the money or the missed opportunities. It was watching what his accusations did to my mother. Every argument they had, every disagreement about anything—bills, vacations, Marcus’ career—somehow circled back to me. I was his weapon, his evidence, his constant reminder of her alleged betrayal.
The night before I left for college, my grandmother Eleanor pulled me aside.
“Keep every document from the hospital where you were born,”
she said, her grip firm on my wrist.
“Your birth certificate, any paperwork. I have a feeling we might need them someday.”
I didn’t understand then, but I kept the papers. And 18 years later, I’d finally learn why she told me to.
That night, I drove back to my apartment in Hartford, a small one-bedroom that I’d furnished with secondhand pieces and pure stubbornness. Nathan was waiting on the couch, his laptop open to floor plans for a client. A glass of wine poured for each of us. He knew immediately something was wrong.
“What did he do this time?”
I told him about the DNA form, the ultimatum, the six-week deadline. Nathan’s jaw tightened with every word.
“Maybe you should just do it,”
he said finally.
“Take the test. Prove him wrong once and for all. Shut him up forever.”
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