From Daniel’s perspective, he had proof.
A vasectomy meant this pregnancy shouldn’t exist.
I demanded a paternity test.
Seven days, the doctor said.
Seven days to prove I was innocent.
But those seven days became the worst week of my life.
Family members began sending messages almost immediately. His mother accused me of humiliating the family. His aunt claimed she had always known I was untrustworthy.
Even distant cousins sent cruel texts.
People who had once hugged me at holidays now wished harm upon my unborn child.
The only person who stood by me was Ryan.
He checked on me every day. Brought food when I couldn’t eat. Sat beside me in silence when I cried.
“I believe you,” he told me quietly. “Something isn’t right, but I know you.”
After a week that felt like an eternity, the envelope finally arrived.
My heart pounded as I held it in my hands.
I called Ryan first.
Then I knocked on Daniel’s door.
We sat at the kitchen table, staring at the envelope between us like it might explode.
Ryan arrived minutes later and took a seat beside me.
“Open it,” Daniel said coldly.
My hands trembled as I tore the envelope open and unfolded the paper.
Medical terms. Identification numbers.
Then the result.