This one had my name on it.
Probability of biological relationship: 99.8%.
My hands went numb.
“That’s impossible. I’m 54.”
“I know.”
“Who is her mother?”
The doctor hesitated.
Before he could continue, someone began pounding on the office door.
“Mom!”
I knew the voice immediately.
Michael.
My oldest son.
The doctor opened the door, and Michael rushed inside.
He was pale.
His hair was messy, and his shirt looked as though he’d thrown it on without even checking whether it was clean.
He stopped when he saw the folder.
Then he looked at the doctor.
“You told her?”
“No,” I said. “Nobody has told me anything.”
“Mom, I can explain.”
“Then start.”
David appeared behind him.
“Carol, maybe we should sit down.”
“I am sitting down.”
Neither of them spoke.
I looked at Michael.
“Is Grace your daughter?”
His eyes widened.
“No.”
“Then what is this?”
I held up the report.
“Why does it say I’m biologically related to that baby?”
Michael looked at David.
That tiny movement told me everything I needed to know.
Whatever was happening, my husband and son already knew about it.
“Stop looking at each other,” I snapped. “Look at me.”
Michael did.
His eyes were wet.
“Grace is your granddaughter.”
I stared at him.
“You just said she isn’t yours.”
“She isn’t.”
“Then whose daughter is she?”
Michael swallowed.
“Rebecca’s.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who is Rebecca?”
Michael opened his mouth.
