It felt good to be useful again. I slid into the rhythm of briefs and brainstorms, of whiteboards and messy marker ink on my fingers. I started running again, too—slow laps around the reservoir at dawn while the city yawned awake. The first mile was always grief; the second, anger; the third, a kind of shaky peace.
The paternity test orders triggered a strange limbo. Sarah had two weeks to present the baby for a cheek swab. She filed three continuances, each with a new excuse: the baby had a cold; the pediatrician advised against it; she was too overwhelmed. The judge’s patience thinned visibly on the fourth attempt.
“Ms. Thompson,” she said, her tone clipped, “if the child is not present for testing by Friday at noon, you will be held in contempt.”
Friday at 11:47 a.m., Sarah arrived, flanked by our parents and a new attorney with an expensive suit and an expression like a polished countertop. The nurse was gentle. The swab was quick. The baby blinked up at the fluorescent lights as if they were stars.