I nodded.
The boys stayed with his mother.
We walked several feet away from the house.
He turned toward me.
“Are they mine?”
I almost laughed.
“That’s your first question?”
His face tightened.
“I need to know.”
“You already know.”
“I need to hear you say it.”
I looked at him.
“They’re your sons.”
He closed his eyes.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then:
“Four?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t want to know.”
“That isn’t fair.”
I stared at him.
“You told me I was lying.”
“I was confused.”
“You called me a liar.”
“I was afraid.”
“You left.”
He looked away.
“I thought you had cheated on me.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know that now.”
I felt something inside me crack.
“Now?”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Your medical records.”
I frowned.
He continued.
“After the divorce, I requested a copy of the records from the clinic.”
“Eight years ago?”
“No.”
He swallowed.
“Three weeks ago.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because Vanessa and I were discussing having children.”
That sentence hurt more than I expected.
He continued.
“She asked me to have a fertility evaluation.”
I said nothing.
“The doctor asked about my previous medical history.”
He looked at the house.
“That’s when I found out something.”
“What?”
“My fertility numbers were extremely low.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
He looked back at me.
“The doctor said there was almost no chance I could naturally father children.”
I stared.
“But you did.”
He nodded.
“Apparently.”
“And that still doesn’t explain why you suddenly believe me.”
He reached into his coat.
Then handed me a folded document.
I opened it.
A DNA test.
Four names.
Four matches.
99.99% probability of biological fatherhood.
I looked up.
“You tested them?”
“No.”
“Then what is this?”
“My own test.”
He had compared his DNA with the medical samples kept from the pregnancy.
The result was undeniable.
Adrian was their father.
I folded the paper.
“You wanted proof.”
“Yes.”
“And now you have it.”
His eyes filled with something I hadn’t expected.
Regret.
“I lost eight years.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
He looked confused.
“You lost eight years.”
I looked toward the house.
“I lost them with you.”
Then I walked away.
Page 5
Christmas dinner was uncomfortable.
No one knew where to look.
The four boys were too young to understand why every adult seemed nervous.
