Chapter 2 - I Did Not Get to Order a DNA Test
By morning, I had done what powerful men do when frightened.
I called a lawyer.
Fortunately, Julia Chen had represented me long enough to tell me when I was being an idiot.
“I need to know whether those children are mine.”
“You need to calm down.”
“They’re eight.”
“I heard you.”
“The timing—”
“I heard that too.”
“Can I request a paternity test?”
“You can request many things.”
“Julia.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You disappeared from these children's lives for nine years, whether knowingly or not. You do not walk into a courtroom tomorrow demanding genetic material because one boy frowned like you.”
That stopped me.
“What do I do?”
“You contact Claire respectfully.”
“I tried.”
“You questioned her at work.”
Fair.
“Ask for a conversation.”
“And if she refuses?”
“Then we decide what legitimate legal questions exist.”
I sent one message.
I am sorry I confronted you at work. I will not contact the boys. If you are willing, I would like one private conversation. You choose where and when.
No answer.
For thirty hours.
Then:
Tuesday. 5:30. Public place. No lawyers in the room.
We met in a café near Loyola.
Claire arrived ten minutes early.
I arrived twenty.
She still drank tea instead of coffee.
I remembered that and hated myself for remembering.
“How are they?”
“Fine.”
“What are their names?”
A pause.
“Noah. Miles. Daniel.”
Daniel.
My father's name.
I looked up.
Claire noticed.
“Don't make that mean more than it does.”
“My father?”
“My grandfather was also Daniel.”
Of course.
I had become so desperate for signs that ordinary names looked like DNA tests.
“How old?”
“Eight.”
“Birthday?”
“Ethan.”
“Please.”
She looked out the window.
“February eighteenth.”
My divorce from Claire had become final the previous June.
Eight months earlier.
Possible.
More than possible.
“How long did you know?”
Her eyes returned to mine.
“That I was pregnant?”
Everything inside me stopped.
“Yes.”
“Eleven days after you signed the divorce papers.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“Before the decree was final?”
“Yes.”
“And you never told me?”
Claire stared at me for several seconds.
Then said:
“I did.”
I actually laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because my brain rejected the sentence.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I would remember.”
“You should.”
“I never received anything.”
“I called your office.”
“When?”
“Three times.”
“I was traveling constantly.”
“I know.”
“I would’ve called you back.”
“You didn't.”
“Claire—”
“I sent a certified letter to Whitmore Industries.”
My mouth went dry.
“Addressed to you.”
“No.”
“Signed for by your executive office.”
“No.”
“I sent an ultrasound.”
I leaned back.
The café seemed suddenly too loud.
“What happened?”
Claire's expression changed.
Not triumph.
Exhaustion.
“Your family attorney responded.”
“Which attorney?”
“William Sloane.”
My mother's longtime personal counsel.
“What did he say?”
Claire reached into her bag.
She had not arrived unprepared.
Nine years later, the paper was folded inside a clear protective sleeve.
Ms. Morgan:
Mr. Whitmore has no intention of reopening personal matters resolved by the parties' separation. Any claim concerning pregnancy, parentage, or financial support should be directed exclusively through counsel. Please refrain from contacting Mr. Whitmore directly.
I read it twice.
Then again.
“Did you respond?”
“My lawyer did.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Why didn't you file for support?”
Claire's face went cold.
“Do not make my choices convenient for you now.”
I stopped.
She continued.
“I had just been thrown out of my home by your mother. You signed a divorce because fighting her was harder than fighting for me. Then I learned I was pregnant with three babies.”
“Three?”
“I didn't know immediately.”
Her hand began trembling.
“I contacted you.”
I looked down at Sloane's letter.
“You never answered.”
“I didn't know.”
“You never checked.”
That was different.
Painfully different.
Then I asked the question I was almost afraid to hear.
“Are they mine?”
Claire breathed out slowly.
“Yes.”
One word.
Nine years disappeared beneath it.
I covered my mouth.
Claire did not comfort me.
She had spent enough years doing emotional labor for Whitmore men.
“The boys don't know you’re their biological father,” she said.
I looked up sharply.
“What do they know?”
“That their father and I separated before they were born and that I'll answer age-appropriate questions when they're ready.”
“You never told them my name?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because children do not need adult betrayal before they understand what marriage is.”
I could barely speak.
“Can I meet them?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
I flinched.
Claire noticed.
Did not soften it.
“Not yet.”
“They’re my sons.”
“Biologically.”
“Claire.”
“You do not get nine years of fatherhood delivered retroactively because you finally saw their faces.”
May you like
That sentence hurt.
It was also true.
Related Stories
