But for the past five years, I'd trusted Louise completely. I had never once questioned Alvin's parentage.
Now, though, I'd heard that conversation with my own ears.
And suddenly, I couldn't bring myself to look this child in the eye—this child I'd raised with my own hands.
I pretended to pick something off his head and plucked two strands of his hair.
I called a same-day courier and sent the hair samples to two different paternity testing centers.
Rush orders. Both of them.
The wait was agonizing.
The moment the results came in, every nerve in my body pulled taut. My heart hammered without rhythm.
I opened the electronic report.
Skipped past everything else. Went straight to the last page.
Based on DNA analysis, the probability of excluding Julian Gilbert as the biological father of the submitted Alvin Gilbert is 99.99%.
Two reports. Same result.
"Ha... haha..."
A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my throat.
Five years.
One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days.
I had poured everything I had into Louise, into Alvin, into this family—every ounce of devotion, every shred of effort I possessed.
And in the end, I was nothing but a fool who'd spent five years raising another man's son.
Bill was right.