We built the nursery together: tiny elephants on the wallpaper, the perfect shade of blue, every detail chosen with love for the son we were waiting for.
Then doubt crept in (stupid, baseless doubt). One night I stood in that room holding a paternity kit like it was evidence.
Emma found me. “Marcus, talk to me.”
I handed her the kit. “I need to know he’s mine.”
Silence. Then: “And if he’s not?”
“Then we’re done,” I said. “I won’t raise someone else’s kid.”
She took the kit, walked out without a fight. That should’ve been my first clue.
Five days later: 0% probability.
I left. Filed for divorce. Told everyone she cheated. Blocked her number. Convinced myself I was the victim.
Three years of new apartments, new jobs, new dates. I was fine. Totally fine.
Then I ran into Thomas, an old friend.
“The lab screwed up, Marcus. Mislabeled samples. Emma proved it a year after you disappeared. Noah is yours. She tried to tell you. You made sure she couldn’t.”
The floor disappeared.
That question (“And if he’s not?”) wasn’t a confession. It was devastation that I could even ask.
I wrote to her. Begged for another test. She sent only a date, a time, a clinic address. No words.
99.99%. He was always mine.
I sent her the results with pages of apologies. Never got an answer.
Now I park across from Noah’s school sometimes. He has my curls, my laugh. He runs to Emma like she’s the entire world.
She rebuilt what I broke. They don’t need me anymore.
And that’s the consequence I live with every single day.
