The results came eleven days later.
I opened the envelope standing at my parents’ kitchen counter, the same counter where my dad made Mickey Mouse pancakes, with Evelyn in the carrier strapped to my chest.
Probability of paternity: 99.99%.
I read it three times. Then I folded it carefully and put it in the green leather photo album, right next to the picture of Copper Tom holding my mother on his knee.
That afternoon, I picked up my phone and texted Ben for the first time since the hospital.
Results came. You can come see her on Saturday. One hour. My parents’ house. My dad will be there.He wrote back in under a minute.
Thank you. I’ll be there. Thank you.
And then, a second later:
Can my mom come?
I stared at that one for a long time.
Not yet, I wrote.
Okay, he wrote. I understand.
He came on Saturday at exactly two o’clock. I watched from the front window as he pulled up. He sat in the car for six whole minutes before he got out. I counted.
