The pediatrician was kind, middle-aged, and brisk in the way good doctors often are when they understand anxious mothers need clarity more than charm. He checked Leo’s lungs, reflexes, weight, temperature, skin tone, and jaundice. He asked me about feeds, wet diapers, bowel movements, sleep stretches, temperature checks, and my own recovery.
I answered everything.
Not because Ethan was there.
Because I knew every answer.
When the doctor said, “For the first few weeks, limit unnecessary exposure, travel, and handling by new people,” I could have hugged him.
Instead I asked, “Would a cheek swab for paternity testing be okay, or should we wait?”
The doctor looked up. Ethan shifted in the corner.
“A cheek swab is low risk,” the doctor said, “but don’t turn today into an all-day outing. Keep him warm. Minimize stress. If he becomes overly fussy or overtired, stop.”
I wrote that down instantly.
The lab administrator downstairs verified IDs, printed forms, and explained the procedure. I read every page before signing. Ethan signed like a man at a closing table—swift, practiced, impatient. My signature took longer.
Not because I doubted the outcome.
Because it felt like I was opening a gate.