I looked sharply at him.
“What?”
Marcus shook his head.
“Never mind.”
He walked back toward his truck.
Claire had been standing behind me.
As soon as I closed the door, she said:
“That was strange.”
“What was?”
“The way he said that.”
I looked through the window as Marcus drove away.
For some reason, I suddenly remembered Daniel’s father’s funeral five years earlier.
Marcus had attended.
Of course he had.
He and Daniel had been friends since they were teenagers.
But while everyone else gathered around Daniel’s family, Marcus stood alone near the back of the chapel.
After the burial, he remained beside the grave long after most people left.
I had found him there.
“You okay?”
Marcus had stared at the dirt covering the coffin.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
He nodded.
“I’ve known that man a long time.”
At the time, I assumed he meant because Daniel’s father had watched him grow up.
Now, for the first time, the memory felt different.
The DNA result arrived seven days after I mailed the samples.
Claire was making coffee.
Noah was asleep beside me.
My daughters were upstairs arguing over a board game.
My phone vibrated.
I saw the laboratory’s name.
For one second, I couldn’t open it.
Then I did.
I scrolled past all the technical language until I reached the number.
Probability of paternity: 99.99%.
Daniel was Noah’s father.
Of course he was.
I closed my eyes.
Relief washed over me for maybe five seconds.
Then it became rage.
Because I had spent an entire week being treated like a criminal in my own marriage.
I had been accused.
Abandoned.
Sent away.
Threatened with separation.
And now a PDF had apparently earned more credibility than eleven years of my life.
Claire sat down across from me.
“Well?”
I handed her the phone.
She read it.
“I knew it.”
“So did I.”
“Send it to him.”
I opened Daniel’s contact.
My instinct was to type:
See? I told you.
Then:
Please come home.
Then:
Can we talk?
I deleted all of it.
Instead, I attached the report.
No message.
No explanation.
Just the file.
I hit send.
Forty-three minutes later, someone pounded on Claire’s front door.
Daniel.
His hair was messy.
His eyes were red.
He looked as if he hadn’t slept.
“Natalie.”
I stood in the doorway.
He stepped toward me.
“I’m sorry.”
I didn’t move.
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I was completely wrong.”
“Yes.”
“Please.”
He started crying.
“I don’t know what happened to me. I saw that mark and everything just—”
“Stop.”
He did.
“Did you read the report?”
“Four times.”
“Good.”
“Can I see Noah?”
I looked at him.
“Not yet.”
His face crumpled.
“Natalie, please.”
I had imagined this moment all week.
I imagined screaming.
I imagined slapping the report against his chest.
I imagined collapsing into his arms.
Instead, I felt strangely calm.
“I have one question.”
“Anything.”
“If Noah is yours…”
I paused.
“Why does he have Marcus’s birthmark?”
Daniel stopped breathing for a second.
“I don’t know.”
“Neither do I.”
He stared at me.
Then suddenly whispered:
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
He pulled out his phone.
“Call him,” I said.
Daniel hesitated.
“Call Marcus.”
He pressed the number.
Marcus answered on the third ring.
“Daniel?”
Daniel’s voice was cold.
“I want to ask you something.”
Silence.
“That mark on your back.”
Marcus said nothing.
“The crescent-shaped birthmark. Where did you get it?”
