Instead, my husband stood at the foot of my bed with his arms crossed, staring at our newborn’s face, and said:
“I want a DNA test.”
For a moment I genuinely thought the medication had scrambled his words in my ears.
“What?” I said.
In the corner of the room, Carson’s mother, Priscilla, sat with a paper coffee cup held in both hands. At his words, she went absolutely still — the particular stillness of a person who has just heard a door open that she spent a lifetime keeping shut.
Carson cleared his throat and said it again, louder, so there could be no mistake.
“I said I want a DNA test. That baby might not be mine.”
The room went so silent I could hear Iris breathing against my chest.
My nurse, Angela, had been adjusting the monitor. She froze, and turned, and looked at my husband the way you look at a man who has just done something you will tell other people about for years.
