I stared at that line of text for a very long time. It was printed in black and white on the lab results—"The test concludes that there is no paternity relationship between the child and the alleged father (Mark Miller)." It wasn't him. I had prepared myself a hundred ways to face the absolute worst outcome. I was going to smash things, scream, call the cops, and shove that report right in his cheating face. But it wasn't him. Then who is Leo’s father? The administrator at the DNA center noted that the child’s Y-chromosome markers were an exact match for the Miller family lineage. The Millers. Not Mark Miller. But a Miller. I closed my eyes. The smiling, cheerful face of my father-in-law, Robert Miller, drifted up out of the darkness. 1 Three months ago, Chloe came over for dinner. She brought Leo. He was three, a chubby little boy, incredibly sweet and impossible not to like. I asked her, "Chloe, Leo is getting cuter every day. He really looks like his dad." Chloe offered a tight smile, looking down to wipe Leo’s mouth. "Don’t bring him up." Chloe had always said Leo’s father was an ex from college, that she hadn't realized she was pregnant until after they broke up. She had the baby alone, raised him alone. My heart ached for her. Chloe and I had been best friends in college; I'd known her for twelve years. I helped her find her job, I went with her to look at apartments, and I sat outside the delivery room waiting when she had Leo. Mark used to tease me about it: "You treat Chloe better than you treat your own sister." I always said, "It's hard for her, doing it all alone." After dinner that night, my mother-in-law, Eleanor, stopped by. The second she walked in and saw Leo, her eyes lit up. "Oh, look, little Leo is here!" She crouched down, pulling a sleek, expensive Transformer toy out of her purse. I froze. I’d seen that exact Transformer. It was a collector's item displayed in the department store, priced at over fifty dollars. My son, Toby, had asked for it last month. I told him it was too expensive and we should wait for a sale. Eleanor handed the Transformer to Leo, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. Leo took it, saying in his adorable toddler voice, "Grandma." I glanced at Toby. Toby was standing to the side, staring at the Transformer. He didn't say anything. I didn't say anything, either. Eleanor never even looked at Toby. Later that night, as I lay in bed, a sudden realization hit me. Leo called my mother-in-law "Grandma." When did Chloe teach him that? I tossed and turned. Forget it, I told myself. Kids are just sweet-talkers. They call older people 'Grandma' or 'Grandpa' all the time. But the next morning, as I was stuffing a water bottle into Toby’s backpack, I saw he’d drawn a square box in his notebook with a pencil. Next to the box, he had painstakingly written one word. "ROBOT." The letters were crooked and wobbly. I stared at that word for five full seconds. Then I stuffed the bottle in and zipped the bag shut. Chloe texted me later that afternoon: "Sarah, Leo’s preschool needs some paperwork. A paternity test, actually. Do you know where I can get one done quickly?" I wrote back: "Just go to the health clinic. It only costs a couple of hundred bucks." Hours later, she replied: "Never mind. I'll figure something else out." I said: "Paternity tests are fast, Chloe. Just a blood draw." She didn't reply. That evening, I asked her again. She said: "I don't want to do it. Too much trouble." What was so troublesome about a paternity test? Blood draw, wait a few days, get the report. It was the first time I felt like Chloe was hiding something. But back then, I thought she was hiding from her ex. Maybe the ex was married now. Maybe she didn't want anyone tracking down who the father was. I didn't think much more of it. But with those two incidents stacked on top of each other, I couldn't sleep soundly anymore. Eleanor's attitude toward Leo. Chloe refusing to take the test. Was there a connection between these two things? I told myself there wasn't. But that night, I dreamed that Leo was sitting on my living room sofa, calling my husband, Mark, "Daddy." I woke up from the nightmare. Drenched in sweat. 2 I started noticing things I'd ignored before. Like how often my mother-in-law visited. It used to be once, maybe twice a month. After Leo was born, she started coming two or three times a week. Every time she came, she brought things. For Leo. Designer clothes, shoes, fancy snacks, brand-name toys. For Toby—nothing. Once, I couldn't help but say, "Mom, Toby’s birthday is coming up soon, too." Eleanor didn't even look up. "Toby doesn't need for anything." "Leo doesn't need for anything, either." Eleanor looked up at me then. I will never forget that look. It wasn't anger. It was defensiveness. Like I had just said something I was absolutely forbidden to say. She set down the apple she was peeling and said slowly, "Chloe is raising that boy on her own. It’s hard. You’re her best friend; don't you have any compassion for her?" I said nothing. She continued, "You shouldn't be so keeping score all the time." Keeping score. I have cooked dinner for her son for eight years, done his laundry for eight years, given birth to her grandson, and raised him. She comes over three times a week, bringing gifts every time for someone else's child, and if I even ask about it, I'm "keeping score." I lowered my head and continued peeling the shrimp for dinner. Mark was next to me, scrolling through his phone. He didn't say a single word from beginning to end. That night, Toby was in his room doing homework while I washed dishes in the kitchen. In the living room, Eleanor was holding Leo, reading him a story. Leo was giggling wildly. I looked out through the glass kitchen door. Eleanor leaned down and kissed Leo’s forehead. She had never kissed Toby. Not once. I turned back to the sink. Kept washing the dishes. I turned the faucet on full blast. I couldn't hear the laughter in the living room anymore. Chloe came to pick up Leo the next day. As I was helping Leo put on his shoes, I felt the socks on his feet. They were thick cotton, the brand tag still attached. I glanced at the tag. Fifteen dollars for one pair of socks. I buy Toby’s socks at Target—ten bucks for a six-pack. I said nothing. I finished putting on his shoes, picked Leo up, and handed him to Chloe. Chloe said, "Thanks so much, Sarah. I’m always imposing on you." I said it was fine. After she left, I stood at the door, watching her get into a taxi. A taxi. Chloe worked as an administrator at a small company, making less than forty thousand a year. Single mom, forty thousand a year, fifteen-dollar socks for her kid, riding in taxis. Where was her money coming from? I’d never thought about this question before. Because I assumed her life was incredibly difficult. Raising a kid alone, renting an apartment, nobody to help. I'd been transferring her five hundred dollars every month, telling her it was "a little something for the groceries." Every time, she would say, "No, no, you don't have to," but she always accepted it. But still. Does a person who wears fifteen-dollar socks need me to "help out" with five hundred dollars a month? I stood at the door, watching the taxi turn the corner and vanish. The wind blew in. It was pretty cold. 3 I started checking Chloe’s Instagram. Her profile was very sterile. Occasionally a picture of Leo, occasionally reposting parenting articles. But she had posted something once, a long time ago, and then deleted it. I remembered what it was. It was a photo. Leo was sitting on a leather sofa in front of a massive floor-to-ceiling window. Neither the sofa nor the window looked like they belonged in the cramped little apartment she was renting. I’d even commented on it at the time: "Where was this taken? It's beautiful." She replied: "A friend's place." And the next day, that post was gone. I opened up Amazon and searched for the brands of clothes Leo wore. A winter coat—a hundred and fifty dollars. Sneakers—eighty dollars. I scrolled down. Nothing Leo wore cost less than forty or五十 dollars. A single mom making forty thousand a year. I turned off my phone. That Saturday was my birthday. I had told Mark the day before: "It's my birthday tomorrow. Let's just eat at home; I'll cook a nice dinner." He said okay. I also called Eleanor: "Mom, tomorrow is my birthday, come over for dinner." Eleanor said: "Okay, I got it." I went grocery shopping early the next morning. I came back and made a huge meal. Ribeye steaks, roasted salmon, Caesar salad, garlic butter shrimp, and a potato soup. Toby helped me set the table. "Mom, when is Grandma coming?" "Soon." I waited until 5:30. I called Eleanor. No answer. I called Mark. "Where are you?" "My mom said she took Leo to the zoo, and she wanted me to pick them up. I'm on my way." "Leo?" "Chloe had something come up, so she dropped Leo off at my mom’s." "Today is my birthday." There was a pause on the other end of the line. "I know. We'll celebrate when I get back." He hung up. I sat at the dinner table. Steaks and salmon. The grease on the steaks had already congealed. The salmon was cold. Toby sat opposite me, poking a shrimp with his fork. "Mom, let's eat." "Let's eat." I put a steak on his plate. I didn't eat. They all came back later that evening. Eleanor walked in saying, "The zoo was so packed today." Nobody mentioned my birthday. Mark hung his coat at the door, put on his slippers, and went straight into the home office. I went to the kitchen and poured the potato soup down the drain. I had never cried in that house. I didn't that day, either. I washed the dishes, wiped the counter, mopped the floor. Then I went to the bedroom, turned off the light. Lied there in the dark with my eyes open. Thinking about one thing. Where was Chloe’s money really coming from? I made a decision the next day. When Chloe brought Leo over to play, I waited for my moment. Leo was on the sofa watching cartoons. I walked over, crouched down, and stroked his head. "Leo, honey, let me get this little stray thread out of your hair for you." Toddlers don't know the difference. I pulled three hairs, ensuring I got the roots, and sealed them in a plastic baggie. I slipped it into my pocket. Chloe was in the kitchen helping me wash fruit. She didn't suspect a thing. 我把口袋里的密封袋攥了一下。 My palm was covered in sweat. 4 I needed a comparison sample. I thought about it for two days. I knew a paternity test required samples from two people to compare. Initially, I only wanted to test Chloe’s "ex-boyfriend"—but I didn't have his DNA. All I had were samples from Miller men. Mark Miller. If my suspicion was correct—if Leo was Mark’s child—then comparing it against him would be enough. I snagged a few hairs from Mark’s hairbrush. Hairs with the roots attached. I sent them to the testing center. I waited seven days. Those seven days felt like I was walking on air. I cooked, did laundry, picked up Toby from school, helped him with his homework every day. Everything was normal. But every night, I lied awake until two or three in the morning. Next to me, Mark was sleeping soundly. Snoring. On the seventh day, the testing center called. "The results are in. You can come pick them up." I took a half-day off work. I took the bus there. My hands were cold the whole way. When I got the report, I sat on a bench in the hallway for a very long time. "It concludes that there is no paternity relationship between Test Sample 1 (Child) and Test Sample 2 (Adult Male)." It wasn't Mark. I stared at that line of text, my mind a complete blank. It wasn't him. Then whose was it? I thought the worst-case scenario was—husband and best friend. I was prepared for anger, prepared to storm out, prepared to file for a divorce and take him for everything he had. But now I was being told it wasn't him. Then who the hell does this child belong to? I walked out of the testing center holding the report. Standing under the bright sun. One phrase kept looping in my head— "Y-chromosome markers were an exact match for the Miller family lineage." That’s what the administrator at the center had said. "While it's not a paternity match, the Y-chromosome markers are a highly significant match, meaning the child's biological father and the sample you provided belong to the exact same paternal line." The exact same paternal line. Not Mark Miller. But a Miller. How many Miller men were there? Mark Miller. Mark’s younger brother, Steven Miller, who lived across the country and only came back once a year. Mark’s father. Robert Miller. No. Impossible. I stood by the side of the road for a long time. Then I bought a bus ticket home. The whole way back, I kept thinking: Impossible. Robert Miller was fifty-eight years old. He was the archetypal wholesome American grandpa. Retired, loved playing chess, went for walks in the park every morning. Every time he came over for dinner, he was dressed neatly, spoke to Mark in a booming voice, and loved to preach about "living with integrity." Eleanor often said, "The best thing about your father is that he's a decent man." Decent. I suddenly remembered something. The year Chloe had Leo, I went over to her place to drop off some homemade casserole. The door wasn't shut all the way. I pushed it open and saw Robert Miller sitting on her sofa. He was holding a grocery bag full of fruit. When he saw me, he stood up and offered a polite smile. "Mark asked me to stop by and check on Chloe, said it’s hard for her on her own." I didn't think much of it at the time. A father-in-law checking on his daughter-in-law's best friend—what was strange about that? But looking back now— Mark asked him to go? I got home and called Mark. "Your dad went to see Chloe at her apartment a few years back. Did you ask him to do that?" There was a pause on the other end. "What? No, I didn't. He went by himself? I didn't know that." He went by himself. Mark didn't know. I hung up the phone. It almost slipped from my hand.
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "394955", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel