I opened the envelope with fingers that would not stop trembling and pulled out several pages bearing the official logo of a high-end genetic laboratory. My eyes blurred for a second as I saw the names of my husband, my son, and myself printed in cold, black ink.
At the bottom of the first page, a single sentence seemed to scream off the paper and take the very breath from my lungs. The text stated that the probability of paternity for Scott Preston regarding the child, Toby Preston, was exactly zero percent.
Toby stirred against me as my breathing became shallow and erratic from the sheer shock of the words. “This is a mistake, Scott, because there is absolutely no way this result can be accurate,” I whispered while clutching the paper.
Scott’s sister, Paige, let out a sharp and bitter laugh that echoed through the hollow dining room. “That is exactly the kind of predictable response we expected from a woman who has been caught in such a disgusting lie,” she sneered.
