When I took a look at the nursery, I recalled Emma, my wife, and I picking every single detail together. We had both put so much effort in building that sanctuary for our son, but at that moment, I felt that something about my life wasn’t right.
I found myself standing in that room with a paternity kit in my hands.
There was some suspicion that bothered me, and I needed to be sure although Emma never gave me a reason to suspect her love and loyalty.
“Marcus?” Emma’s voice came from the doorway. “What’s going on? You’ve been distant all week.”
I turned to face her and handed her the test. “I need you to take this.”
She blinked, confused. “What is that?”
“A paternity test,” I said, barely recognizing my own voice and the words coming out of my mouth. “I need to know if he’s mine.”
What followed was a long silence that Emma finally broke by asking, “And what if he’s not?”
I believed that question was sort of a confession, and I became even more certain that the boy could not be mine. “Then we’re done,” I said. “I won’t raise another man’s child.”
Emma took the kit and left the room. She didn’t yell, nor she got mad, and that confused me even more.
The results came five days later. I opened the envelope in my car while my hands trembled.
Probability of paternity: 0%.
Not mine. Not my son.
I couldn’t take a breath at that moment, I just sat there for nearly an hour, reading and rereading the report, waiting for the paper to change its mind. But it didn’t.
When I walked into the house, Emma was feeding the baby. I didn’t have to say anything because she could see it from my face.
“He’s not mine,” I said.
Her eyes closed briefly. “Marcus—”
“I’ve already spoken to a lawyer,” I interrupted. “I’m filing for divorce.”
She just nodded. “You’ve already decided who I am,” she said. “You don’t need the truth anymore.”
I left three days later. Changed my number, moved, told everyone she cheated. People believed me. I believed me.
For three years, I lived convinced I’d done the right thing. I rebuilt my life, got myself a new apartment, new job, new dates. I told myself I’d escaped a lie.
But late at night, when the city went quiet, I’d hear Emma’s voice again, And what if he’s not yours? Was I looking for reasons not to trust her long before the test?
Then one morning, in a coffee shop downtown, I saw Thomas Chen, a mutual friend who was a guest at my and Emma’s wedding. When he spotted me, it seemed like he felt disappointed for stumbling upon me.
“Marcus,” he said. “Three years. That’s how long since you left Emma—and your son.”
“Not my son,” I said automatically. “The test—”
He cut me off. “The test was wrong.”
I stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“The lab messed up,” Thomas said. “Clerical error, mislabeled samples—whatever it was, it’s documented. Emma proved it a year after you left. Noah is your son. She tried to tell you, Marcus. You’d blocked every way she could reach you.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe.
Thomas’s voice softened. “That look you saw on her face when you handed her the kit? That wasn’t guilt. That was heartbreak. She couldn’t believe you’d doubt her like that.”
“She’s doing fine now,” he added. “Raising Noah alone. He looks just like you.” He then stood up and left me with my morning coffee that had turned cold by then.
I don’t remember driving home, I just remember sitting at my kitchen table for hours, questioning my life choices.
That night, I wrote Emma a letter.
I know you have no reason to believe me, but I need to take another test. Not because I doubt you—but because I need to see it for myself. I’m sorry for everything. For not trusting you, for leaving, for what I’ve become.
Two weeks later, I received a note with only a date, time, and clinic name. No words. But it was enough.
The test came back a few days later:
Probability of Paternity: 99.99%.
He was mine. He’d always been mine.
I sent Emma the results with another letter. It was pages of apologies, explanations, regrets, but I never got a response. Weeks turned into months, and eventually I stopped hoping.
Her silence was my punishment.
Sometimes, I drive past Noah’s school. I know I shouldn’t. I sit in my car, watching from a distance as Emma picks him up. He’s happy, he’s laughing, and his curls are identical to mine at that age.
They look happy. Whole. I destroyed that once. I won’t do it again.
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Bored Daddy
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