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.”
“Clarity is fine,” I said while holding Addison close. “But we’re doing this properly. Chain of custody. Hospital lab. No mail-in kits. No ‘I’ll handle it.’”
His eyes narrowed. “Why are you making this difficult?”
“I’m being precise,” I answered.
The nurse overseeing the paperwork, Nina Alvarez, nodded slightly. “That’s standard procedure, ma’am.”
Ethan signed the consent forms with an irritated flourish. “Good,” he muttered. “Let’s finish this.”
While they swabbed Addison’s cheek, I watched Ethan carefully. He kept rubbing his thumb against his wedding ring as if trying to erase it.