Chapter 12 - Gathering the Proof
The very next afternoon, driven by a desperate, sickening hope, I drove to my parents’ house. Oliver spent nearly every weekend there, spoiled by his grandparents while Natalie was out.
I walked through the house like a ghost, making small talk with my mother before slipping quietly down the hall to the guest bathroom Oliver used. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I found his blue plastic hairbrush resting on the counter. With trembling fingers, I carefully collected several thick strands of dark hair caught in the bristles, making sure the tiny white follicles were still attached. I placed them inside a sterile plastic ziplock bag and hid it deep in my purse.
The next morning, I drove to an independent genetic testing laboratory two towns over. When I handed the bag to the receptionist across the counter, she looked at the forms and asked what my exact legal relationship to the minor was.
I stood there, paralyzed, the clinical fluorescent lights buzzing above me. I did not know what to say without sounding insane.
So I simply answered, my voice cracking, “I just need to know. Please.”
Three agonizing, sleepless weeks passed before the thick, certified envelope finally arrived in my mailbox. When it came, I didn't sit down. I tore it open while standing rigidly in the center of my kitchen.
I skipped the legal jargon and scanned down to the final, bolded line.
May you like
Probability of maternity: 99.99%.
My knees buckled. I sank heavily to the cold kitchen tiles, clutching the crinkled paper in both hands, pressing it against my chest as I let out a scream that had been trapped in my lungs for twelve years.
