I was in the hospital waiting room when the doctor asked which of us was actually the father. The fluorescent lights hummed above us, casting that sickly hospital glow over everything. My brother Derek sat three chairs away, his leg bouncing nervously, his phone clutched in both hands. Between us, the empty chair felt like a chasm. We hadn’t spoken in 40 minutes.

 Not since we’d both arrived separately, and realized the other was there. The doctor stood in the doorway wearing surgical scrubs, her mask pulled down around her neck, looking between us with an expression I couldn’t quite read. confusion maybe or concern. “I’m sorry,” she said, glancing at the tablet in her hands. “But we have a situation.

 The baby’s blood type is O negative. The mother is A positive, which means the biological father has to be O negative or O positive with specific genetic markers.” She looked at me first. “Mr. Holloway, what’s your blood type?” “A positive,” I said automatically. “Same as my wife.” The doctor’s eyes shifted to Derek. “And you?” “Oh, negative.

” Dererick’s voice was barely audible. He wouldn’t look at me. just stared at the floor tiles like they held answers to questions I didn’t want to ask. The room tilted, not literally, but my brain did this thing where reality seemed to shift sideways, where the world I thought I understood suddenly looked different from an angle I’d never seen before.

 My wife Natalie was in surgery right now, emergency C-section, because the baby’s heart rate had dropped during labor. Our baby, our daughter, except the doctor was standing here asking which of us was the father, and my brother couldn’t meet my eyes. There must be a mistake, I said. Run the test again. Blood types can be wrong. The doctor shook her head slowly. Mr.

 Holloway, I understand this is difficult, but blood typing is very straightforward. If both parents are a positive, they cannot produce an O negative child. It’s genetically impossible. One of you isn’t the biological father. She paused, her voice softening. I’m only asking because we need accurate medical history for the baby. There are genetic conditions, hereditary risks we need to consider.

Dererick finally looked up. His face was pale, his eyes red rimmed. Michael, I’m so sorry. I never meant for don’t. The word came out harder than I intended. Don’t you [ __ ] say another word. The doctor stepped back, clearly uncomfortable. I’ll give you two some privacy, but I need an answer within the hour.

 The baby’s in Nikku and we’re running a full genetic panel. She disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps echoing against the lenolium. I stood up, my fists clenched so tight, my nails bit into my palms. Dererick stood too, keeping the chairs between us like they could protect him from what was coming. How long? My voice sounded strange, distant, like it belonged to someone else. Michael, please. How [ __ ] long, Derek? He flinched.

 6 months. It started 6 months ago. 6 months. I did the math automatically. Natalie was 8 months pregnant. The affair started before she got pregnant, which meant there was a real possibility that the baby I’d been preparing for, the nursery I’d painted, the crib I’d assembled, the name we’d chosen together, none of it was mine.

 The daughter I’d been talking to through Natalie’s belly every night, reading stories to, playing music for, she might not be mine at all. Where? The question came out before I could stop it. Where did you I couldn’t finish. The images flooding my head were too much. Our house, Derek whispered. When you were at work. Our house. Our bed. Probably.

 The bed I shared with my wife. The bed where we’d conceived. Or where I’d thought we’d conceived. The bed where I’d held Natalie through her morning sickness. Rubbed her feet when they swelled. Felt the baby kick against my palm. All of it contaminated now. Poisoned by this revelation. Why? It was the only question that mattered.

 Why would you do this? Dererick’s face crumpled. I didn’t plan it. We were just talking one day. She was upset about something at work and things just happened. Then it kept happening. I tried to stop. I swear I tried, but but what? You loved her too much. You couldn’t help yourself. Rage was building in my chest, hot and choking. She’s my wife.

 My [ __ ] wife, Derek, and you’re my brother. I know. Tears were streaming down his face now. I know, and I hate myself for it. Every single day, I hate myself. Not enough to stop, apparently. I moved around the chairs, closing the distance between us. Dererick took a step back. his hands raised defensively. Not enough to tell me.

 Not enough to do the right thing even once in six goddamn months. I wanted to tell you a thousand times I almost I shoved him. Not hard, but enough to make him stumble backward into the wall. You wanted to tell me. You wanted to ease your guilt by destroying my life. How noble of you. A nurse appeared at the end of the hallway, alerted by the raised voices. Gentlemen, I’m going to need you to keep it down.

This is a hospital. I stepped back, forcing myself to breathe. The nurse watched us for a moment longer, then continued on her rounds. Dererick slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor, his head in his hands. I wanted to hit him, wanted to keep hitting him until this feeling in my chest went away, until the images in my head stopped until I could go back to 3 hours ago when I was just a nervous father waiting for his daughter to be born. Does she know you’re here? I asked. Dererick nodded. I texted her

when she went into labor. She told me to come, said she needed to tell you the truth, that she couldn’t keep lying anymore. How generous of her. I laughed, but it came out bitter and broken. She waited until she was in active labor to develop a conscience. She’s scared, Michael. She doesn’t know what to do.

 And you? What do you want to do? Dererick looked up at me, his face a mess of tears and snot. I want to disappear. I want to go back in time and never start this. I want his voice broke. I want her to be yours. I want this baby to be yours because you’ll be a better father than I could ever be. That’s not how biology works. I sat down on the floor across from him, suddenly too tired to stand.

 If she’s yours, she’s yours. And if she’s yours, then what? We all pretend everything’s fine. I raise my brother’s kid while you what? Play uncle. Come to birthday parties and Christmas dinners and pretend you didn’t destroy everything. I don’t know. Dererick wiped his face with his sleeve. I don’t know what happens next. We sat in silence for a long time. Somewhere down the hall, a baby was crying.

 Not my baby. Maybe not my baby. That thought kept circling in my head like a vulture. The doctor had said the baby was in NICU, which meant there were complications beyond just the paternity question. My daughter, or Dererick’s daughter, was fighting for stability right now, and here we were falling apart in a hospital hallway. I need to see her, I said finally.

 Natalie, I need to hear this from her. Dererick nodded. The doctor said she’s in recovery. They’ll let you in soon. Just me. I stood up, looking down at my brother. You stay here. Don’t come near her. Don’t come near me. When the doctor comes back, you’ll tell her you’re the father. You’ll give them whatever medical history they need.

 Then you’ll leave and you won’t contact either of us again until I decide what happens next. Michael, that’s not a request. My voice was cold. Final. You’ve done enough damage. The only reason I’m not beating the [ __ ] out of you right now is because Natalie’s down that hallway and I need to focus on her. But make no mistake, Derek. We’re done. I don’t have a brother anymore. I walked away before he could respond.

 Before I could see his face crumple again, before I could feel anything that resembled sympathy for him. A nurse directed me to the recovery area where Natalie would be brought after surgery. I waited in a smaller, quieter room, just chairs and a television playing some morning show with the sound off. My phone had 17 missed calls from my parents, from Natalie’s parents, from friends who’d heard about the emergency delivery.

 I couldn’t face any of them yet. Couldn’t explain what I barely understood myself. A different doctor appeared after 20 minutes. Older male with gray hair and tired eyes. Mr. Holloway, your wife is out of surgery. Everything went well. She’s groggy but stable.

 The baby is in NICU as a precaution, but her vitals are strong. Can I see Natalie in a few minutes? I need to brief you first on her condition. He sat down across from me, his tablet resting on his knee. The placenta was partially separated, which is why we had to move quickly. If we’d waited much longer, both mother and baby could have been in serious danger.

 As it is, Natalie lost a significant amount of blood. She’ll need monitoring for the next 24 hours, but she’s okay. She’s going to be fine, tired, sore, emotional. This kind of emergency delivery is traumatic even when everything goes right. He paused. Dr. Reeves mentioned there was some confusion about paternity. No confusion. The words felt like gravel in my throat.

My brother is the father. We confirmed it. The doctor’s expression didn’t change, but I saw something flicker in his eyes. Sympathy, maybe. Pity. I’m sorry. That must be incredibly difficult. I want a DNA test. Official, legal, whatever you need to do. I need to know for sure. Of course. We can arrange that.

 It’s a simple cheek swab for you and the baby. Results take about 3 days. He made a note on his tablet. Is there anything else you need right now? What I needed was to wake up from this nightmare. What I needed was for the last 6 months to be different. For Derek to have stayed away, for Natalie to have been faithful.

 What I needed was for that baby in the niku to be mine with absolute certainty. Not this question mark hanging over everything. But I couldn’t say any of that to this stranger with his tired eyes and his clinical sympathy. I need to see my wife. He led me down another hallway to a recovery room where Natalie lay in a hospital bed, her face pale against the white pillows, an IV line running into her arm. She looked fragile in a way I’d never seen before, small and breakable.

 When she saw me, her eyes filled with tears. Michael, don’t. I pulled a chair close to the bed, but didn’t reach for her hand. Just tell me the truth. All of it. She closed her eyes, tears streaming down her temples into her hair. It started at your birthday party. Dererick and I were in the kitchen. You were outside with everyone else. We’d been drinking. He said something that made me laugh and suddenly we were kissing.

 I stopped it that night, pushed him away, but then he texted me a few days later and I don’t need the play-by-play. I interrupted. I need to know if you think the baby is his. Natalie’s hand moved to her stomach now flat beneath the hospital gown. I don’t know the timing. It could be either of you. I was with both of you during that week.

 Jesus Christ. I stood up, pacing the small room. You were sleeping with both of us and you didn’t think to mention it. You didn’t think I deserved to know. I wanted to tell you so many times. Her voice was small, broken. Every time I felt her kick, every ultrasound appointment, every time you talked about being a father, I wanted to tell you, but I was terrified. Terrified of losing you. Terrified of what it would do to your family. Terrified of being alone.

So, you just kept lying. Kept sleeping with my brother. Kept pretending everything was fine while you destroyed our marriage from the inside. It wasn’t like that. I ended things with Derek 2 months ago. I told him it was wrong, that I chose you, that I wanted our family to work. two months ago. I did the math.

 So, you were still [ __ ] him 6 months into your pregnancy? She flinched at the language. It was complicated. He kept saying he loved me, that he’d leave everything to be with me. I was confused and scared. And And what? You just couldn’t help yourself? Poor Natalie, torn between two brothers. What a terrible position to be in. The sarcasm tasted bitter.

 Did you think about me even once? Did you think about what this would do when the truth came out? Every second of every day. She was crying harder now, her whole body shaking. I hate myself for what I’ve done. I hate that I’ve hurt you, but I love you, Michael. I’ve always loved you. Don’t. I held up a hand, stopping her.

 Don’t say that word to me right now. You don’t get to say you love me after spending 6 months sleeping with my brother. You don’t get to claim love while lying to my face every single day. A nurse knocked and entered, checking Natalie’s vitals on the monitor. She glanced between us, clearly sensing the tension, but said nothing. After adjusting the IV drip, she left with a quiet call if you need anything.

 The silence stretched. Outside the window, dawn was breaking, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. In another life, this would have been one of the happiest days of my existence. The birth of my first child, the beginning of our family. Instead, I was standing in a hospital room wondering if anything about my life was real.

 I want a DNA test, I said finally. The doctor’s arranging it. Natalie nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Okay. And I want you to tell me something honest right now. No [ __ ] If the baby is Dererick’s, what do you want? She was quiet for so long, I thought she might not answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

 I want her to be yours. I want this family to be ours. I want to raise her together and have the life we planned. That’s not honest. That’s what you wish would happen. What do you actually want? More silence then. I don’t know. If she’s Dererick’s, I don’t know what I want. I don’t love him the way I love you. What we had, it was physical. It was escape.

It was wrong. But if she’s his, he deserves to know his daughter. and she deserves to know her real father. Even if it destroys what’s left of this family, I don’t know if there’s anything left to destroy. She looked at me, her eyes red and swollen.

 Is there? Can you forgive me? I wanted to lie, to say yes, to pretend we could move past this, but standing there looking at my wife, at the woman I’d loved for 7 years, married for four, I felt nothing but emptiness. The rage had burned itself out, leaving behind just this hollow ache. I don’t know, I said honestly. Right now, I can’t even look at you without seeing him, without imagining what you did.

Maybe that fades eventually. Maybe I wake up one day and it doesn’t hurt anymore. But right now, no, I can’t forgive you. She nodded, fresh tears spilling. I understand. I need to see the baby. I move toward the door. Whatever happens next, she’s in NICU, and she needs stability.

 So, we’re going to put on a show for the hospital staff, be civil, be parents together, but when we leave here, we’re done. You’re moving out. I’m calling a divorce lawyer and we’re going to figure out custody based on the DNA results. Michael, please. This isn’t up for debate. I opened the door. Get some rest. I’ll be with our daughter.

 I left before she could respond, before I could see her breakdown completely, before I could feel anything that resembled sympathy. The NICU was on the fourth floor, a hushed unit of incubators and monitors and tiny babies fighting to survive. A nurse checked my ID bracelet, verified I was the father. That word felt like a knife, and led me to an incubator near the window.

 She was so small, impossibly small, wrapped in a pink blanket with a tiny knit cap on her head, wires attached to her chest, monitoring her heartbeat and oxygen levels. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful. She had Natalie’s nose, I realized. The same slight upturn at the tip, but her chin was different, stronger.

 Was it mine or Dererick’s? How could you tell with a newborn who barely looked human yet? “You can touch her,” the nurse said softly. “Just wash your hands first.” I scrubbed at the sink, the antiseptic smell sharpened my nose. Then I reached through the port hole in the incubator, letting my finger brush against her tiny hand.

 She gripped it reflexively, her fingers wrapping around mine with surprising strength, and something in my chest cracked open. This baby, this tiny person, had done nothing wrong. She didn’t ask to be born into this mess. She didn’t ask for her mother to be unfaithful or for her parentage to be uncertain. She was just here fighting to breathe, to exist. “Hey there,” I whispered. I’m the words caught.

 I was what? Her father, maybe her uncle, possibly a stranger tied to her by blood or marriage or both. I’m Michael and whatever happens, whatever the test says, I’m going to make sure you’re okay. I stayed with her for an hour, my finger trapped in her tiny grip, watching her chest rise and fall, counting her breaths.

 Other parents came and went, checking on their own babies, having quiet conversations with nurses. A woman across the room was crying, her baby hooked to more machines than mine. A couple near the back was taking photos. Their baby apparently ready to graduate from NICU to the regular nursery.

 Life and death and everything in between, all happening in this one room. My phone buzzed. A text from Derek. I told the doctor everything she needed. Leaving now. I’m sorry. I didn’t respond. Just turned the phone over and went back to watching my daughter or Dererick’s daughter sleep. The nurse returned to check her vitals. Made some notes on a chart. Smiled at me kindly. She’s doing great.

 Strong heartbeat, good oxygen levels. If she keeps this up, she might be able to leave NICU tomorrow. That’s good. The words felt automatic, disconnected from any real emotion. First baby? The nurse asked. Yeah, it’s overwhelming, isn’t it? All the machines, all the worry. But she’s a fighter. You can tell already. The nurse patted my shoulder. Get some rest.

She’ll be here when you wake up. But I couldn’t rest. Couldn’t close my eyes without seeing Derek and Natalie together. Without imagining 6 months of betrayal, without wondering how many times they’d laughed about me behind my back. Had they laughed? or had it been guilty and fertive stolen moments between lies.

 Did it matter? The betrayal was the same either way. My parents arrived around noon, frantic with worry after my dad had driven them the 3 hours from their home upstate. Mom hugged me so tight I could barely breathe, asking a hundred questions about Natalie and the baby. I gave them the basic facts.

 Emergency C-section, mother and baby both stable, baby and niku for observation. I didn’t mention the rest. Couldn’t say those words out loud to my parents yet. Can we see her? mom asked, already moving toward the NICU entrance. Yeah, but just for a few minutes. They limit visitors. I led them in, showed them the incubator, watched my mom’s eyes fill with tears. She’s beautiful, mom whispered.

 Just beautiful. Have you named her yet? Natalie and I had agreed on a name months ago. Elellanar Rose. Elellaner after Natalie’s grandmother. Rose after mine. But saying that name now felt like a lie, like I was claiming something that might not be mine to claim. Not yet, I said. We’re still deciding. Dad put his hand on my shoulder.

 You look exhausted. When’s the last time you slept? Yesterday? Maybe the day before? I don’t know. Come on. Dad guided me toward the door. Your mom will stay with the baby. Let’s get you some food, some coffee. You’re no good to anyone if you collapse. We ended up in the hospital cafeteria, surrounded by the smell of industrial coffee and reheated pizza.

Dad got me a sandwich I didn’t want, and coffee I desperately needed. We sat by the window overlooking the parking lot, and I realized I had to tell him. had to explain why Dererick had been at the hospital, why he’d left, why this happy occasion felt like a funeral. Dad, there’s something you need to know.

 I wrapped my hands around the coffee cup, using the heat to ground myself about Derek and Natalie. I told him everything, watched his face go through the same progression mine had. Confusion, disbelief, anger, grief. When I finished, he sat back in his chair, looking 10 years older than he had an hour ago. Jesus, he breathed.

 Jesus Christ, are you sure? Blood types don’t lie. The baby is O negative. Natalie and I are both A positive. It’s genetically impossible for her to be mine unless there’s some miracle exception, which the doctor says there isn’t. Dad’s hands clenched into fists on the table. I’m going to kill him. I’m going to actually kill Derek. Get in line. How could he? Dad’s voice broke.

 How could he do this to you? To our family? He’s your brother. He was supposed to He couldn’t finish. Just sat there with his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Seeing my father cry was somehow worse than everything else. Dad was the strong one, the rock, the man who taught me how to throw a baseball and change attire and treat women with respect.

 Watching him break down over Dererick’s betrayal made it all more real, more permanent. I don’t know what to do, I admitted. The rational part of me says, “Divorce Natalie, cut Dererick out completely, walk away from all of it.” But then I think about that baby up there and I can’t just She didn’t ask for this. No, she didn’t.

 Dad wiped his eyes and neither did you. Whatever you decide, your mother and I support you. But Michael, you need to think very carefully about what you can live with. Can you raise a child who might not be yours? Can you look at her everyday and not see Derek? Can you forgive Natalie enough to co-arent? I don’t know. That’s what I keep saying. I don’t know anything anymore.

 We sat in silence, drinking terrible coffee, watching people come and go, families visiting sick relatives, doctors grabbing quick meals between shifts, patients shuffling by in wheelchairs and IV poles. Life continuing despite personal catastrophe. The world didn’t stop spinning because my marriage had imploded. My phone rang. Natalie’s mother, Barbara.

 I let it go to voicemail. Then it rang again and again. Finally, I answered. Michael, thank God. Barbara’s voice was shrill with panic. We’ve been calling for hours. Is Natalie okay? Is the baby okay? Why aren’t you answering? Everyone’s fine. Baby’s in NICU, but stable. Natalie’s recovering from the C-section. Oh, thank God.

 We’re getting on a plane now. We’ll be there tonight. Barbara, wait. What’s the baby’s name? What does she look like? Send photos. Barbara, stop. I closed my eyes. There’s something you need to know before you come here. I told her not everything, but enough. That there were complications beyond the medical kind.

 That Natalie and I were having serious problems. That maybe she should call Natalie directly before making travel plans. Barbara went silent. And then I heard her crying. And then her husband David took the phone. What happened? David’s voice was hard, protective. What did you do to my daughter? I didn’t do anything.

 Natalie had an affair with my brother for 6 months and the baby might not be mine. More silence then. That’s not possible. Natalie would never ask her yourself, but do it over the phone because I don’t want you here. Not yet. Not until we figure out what happens next. I hung up before he could respond. Before I had to hear him defend his daughter before I had to explain again how thoroughly my life had been dismantled. Dad was watching me.

 That was harsh. I don’t have the energy to be diplomatic right now. If they want to support their daughter, fine. But they don’t get to waltz in here and pretend I’m the villain. The DNA test happened that afternoon. A technician swabbed the inside of my cheek, then went to the NICU to swab the baby. Simple, clinical, taking less than 5 minutes.

 3 days for results, they said. 3 days to know if I was a father or just a betrayed husband. 3 days to decide whether to walk away or stay and fight for a child who might not share my DNA. Natalie was moved to a regular room that evening. I visited briefly, bringing her the toiletries and clothes she’d requested. We barely spoke.

 She asked about the baby and I told her the NICU doctor was optimistic. She asked about my parents and I said they knew everything. She asked if I’d talk to Derek again and I said no that I never wanted to talk to Dererick again. Michael, he’s your brother. You can’t just watch me. I set her bag on the chair.

 Is there anything else you need for you to stay? For us to talk about this? For you to give me a chance to explain? You explained you slept with my brother for 6 months. You lied to me every day. You got pregnant and didn’t know who the father was. What else is there to explain? She looked at me with those red- rimmed eyes. That I love you. That I made the worst mistake of my life.

 That if I could take it back, I would. But you can’t. So, here we are. I moved toward the door. I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you, try to get some sleep. I spent the night in a hotel near the hospital, lying on top of the covers, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. My phone kept buzzing.

 Messages from friends, from extended family, from people who’d heard about the baby and wanted to congratulate me. I couldn’t respond. Couldn’t pretend to be happy when everything was falling apart. Around 3:00 in the morning, Dererick called. I almost didn’t answer, but morbid curiosity went out. What? I just wanted to check how everyone was doing. His voice was small, tentative. Everyone’s fine.

 No thanks to you, Michael. Please. I know you hate me. I know what I did was unforgivable. But can we can we just talk? Can I explain? There’s nothing to explain. You wanted her. You had her. You ruined everything. End of story. It wasn’t like that. We didn’t It wasn’t about hurting you.

 Then what was it about Derek? What possible justification could you have? He was quiet for so long. I thought he’d hung up. Then I’ve been in love with her since the day you introduced us. I know that’s [ __ ] up. I know that makes me the worst brother in the world, but I’ve loved her for 7 years. And every time I saw you two together, it killed me. When she kissed me that night, I thought, “Maybe I finally had a chance.

 Maybe she’d choose me.” The words landed like punches. You’ve been in love with my wife for 7 years. You came to our wedding. You watched us get married knowing you wanted her. I thought I could get over it. I dated other women. I tried to move on, but nothing ever felt the same.

 And then that night at your birthday party when she kissed me back, she kissed you. Natalie had said he kissed her. Another lie. Or did it matter who initiated? We kissed each other. It was mutual. And then afterwards, she texted me saying we needed to talk. And I thought, I don’t care what you thought. I was shaking with rage. You’re my brother. She’s my wife.

 Those are the only facts that matter. And you destroyed both those relationships because you couldn’t handle your feelings like an adult. I know you’re right. I’m a piece of [ __ ] I deserve everything you’re thinking about me. Good. We agree on something. I started to hang up, then stopped. Derek, one more thing.

 When the DNA results come back, if that baby is yours, I’ll do what’s right for her. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of, that she has what she needs. But you and me, we’re done. No family dinners, no holidays, no phone calls. You’re dead to me. And if that baby is mine, you never get to see her, never get to know her. You made your choice. Live with it.

 I hung up before he could respond and turned off my phone. Silence filled the hotel room, heavy and suffocating. I thought about my daughter or niece, alone in that incubator, unaware of the mess surrounding her birth. She deserved better than this. Better than a father consumed by rage and betrayal. Better than an uncle who’d destroyed his brother’s life. Better than a mother who’d lied for months.

 The next morning, I returned to the hospital to find Natalie being discharged. She was moving slowly, clearly in pain from the surgery. But the doctors had cleared her to go home. Home. Our home. the place where Dererick had been welcome, where the affair had happened, where every room now held contamination. “I called my mom,” Natalie said as I helped her into a wheelchair.

 “She’s coming tomorrow. She’ll stay with me for a few weeks. Help with the baby when she comes home from NICU.” “Fine, Michael. We need to talk about logistics. Are you coming home? Are we What are we doing? I’m staying at a hotel until the DNA results come back. Then we’ll figure out next steps based on that.

 And if she’s yours, I stopped pushing the wheelchair, came around to face her. If she’s mine, we’ll work out shared custody. You can stay in the house until we sell it. I’ll make sure you and the baby have everything you need financially, but we’re still getting divorced. You won’t even try. Won’t give us a chance to work through this.

 Work through what exactly? Work through you sleeping with my brother for 6 months. Work through you lying to me every single day. Work through you getting pregnant and not knowing who the father was? What part of that am I supposed to work through, Natalie? She was crying again, but I felt nothing. The tears that might have moved me a week ago were just water now. Meaningless salt and regret.

 I made a mistake. she whispered. A mistake is forgetting to pay a bill or saying the wrong thing. 6 months of [ __ ] my brother isn’t a mistake. It’s a choice. A hundred different choices every single day. I wheeled her to the exit where her friend Rachel was waiting with a car.

 Rachel gave me a look that was half sympathy, half accusation, like I was somehow responsible for Natalie’s pain. I helped Natalie into the passenger seat, handed Rachel the discharge papers, and walked away without saying goodbye. The next three days were surreal. I visited the baby twice a day, sitting by her incubator, watching her sleep, letting her grip my finger.

 The nurses started recognizing me, making small talk about how strong she was, how well she was doing. When asked if we’d chosen a name yet, I said no. We were waiting, waiting for DNA results that would determine if I had the right to name her. Natalie’s parents arrived and immediately tried to corner me, to defend their daughter, to convince me to forgive her.

 I refused to engage, just walked away whenever they approached. Let them comfort Natalie. Let them spin whatever narrative made their daughter the victim. I didn’t have the energy to fight them, too. On the third day, Dr. Reeves found me in the NICU. Her expression was carefully neutral, professionally sympathetic. Mr. Holloway, the DNA results are back.

 Can we talk in private? My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The moment that would determine everything. I followed her to a small consultation room, sat in the chair, she indicated, and waited while she opened a file on her tablet. I want to be direct, Dr. Reeves said. The paternity test shows that you are not the biological father.

The probability of paternity is 0%. Your brother is the biological father with 99.9% certainty. The words hit me like a physical blow even though I’d been expecting them. 0%. Not unlikely or low probability. Zero. The baby girl I’d been visiting, talking to, falling in love with for 3 days, she wasn’t mine. Would never be mine.

 Was my niece, not my daughter. Thank you for telling me. I managed. I’m very sorry. I know this is devastating news, Dr. Reeves paused. What would you like us to do about the birth certificate? Right now, it lists you as the father, but given these results, change it. Put Derrick’s name, Derek Holloway. I’ll give you his information.

 And the baby’s name? We need that for the official documents. I thought about Elanor Rose, the name Natalie and I had chosen together. That name belonged to our daughter, the daughter we should have had. This baby deserved her own name, her own identity, separate from the lies and betrayal. Her mother can name her. It’s not my decision. Dr. Reeves made notes.

 I’ll speak with Mrs. hallway again. I’m very sorry. If you need resources for counseling or support, I’m fine. I stood up, needing to get out of that tiny room before I started screaming or breaking things or collapsing under the weight of this confirmation. Thank you for handling this professionally.

 I went to the NICU one last time, stood by the incubator, looking at this perfect innocent baby who would never know me as her father, who would grow up hearing about the uncle who couldn’t handle her mother’s affair, who’d walked away rather than staying to help raise her. Would she understand? Would she hate me? I’m sorry, I whispered through the plastic. I’m sorry I can’t be what you need.

 I’m sorry your real father is I couldn’t finish. Just put my finger against the port hole, watched her tiny hand move and sleep. Be strong, okay? Be stronger than all of us. I called Derek from the parking lot. He answered on the first ring, his voice desperate and scared. Michael, the results came back. She’s yours. Congratulations. You’re a father. Silence, then softly. Oh my god.

The hospital needs your information for the birth certificate. I’m texting you Dr. Reeves’s contact info. You need to deal with this. You need to be there for that baby. I’m done. Michael, wait. No, I’m not waiting. I’m not discussing this. I’m not playing happy family. You wanted her. You got her. Now step up and be a father.

 Because if you abandon that baby after destroying my life to create her, I swear to God, Derek, I will make sure everyone knows what kind of person you really are. I hung up and drove to the house, my house, to pack my things. Natalie was there with her mother, both of them sitting on the couch looking shell shocked. Barbara stood up when I entered, her face hostile.

 You’re really going to abandon her? Abandon both of them? I’m not abandoning anyone. I’m removing myself from a situation where I was lied to, cheated on, and humiliated. There’s a difference. She made a mistake. Marriages survive affairs. People work through. This wasn’t just an affair.

 This was 6 months with my brother, resulting in a child that isn’t mine. This isn’t something you work through. This is something you leave behind. I went upstairs and started throwing clothes into a duffel bag. Natalie appeared in the doorway, moving slowly, still recovering from the surgery. Please don’t go. Her voice was barely audible. Please, Michael. I’ll do anything.

 Therapy, counseling, whatever you want. Just don’t leave. I already left 3 days ago when I found out. This is just making it official. I zipped the bag, grabbed my laptop. Dererick’s the father. The hospital has the DNA results. He’ll need to sign the birth certificate and deal with all the legal stuff. You two can figure out custody and support and whatever else.

 What about us? What about our marriage? There is no marriage. There hasn’t been for 6 months. I just didn’t know it. My lawyer will be in touch about the divorce. We’ll split assets fairly. You can keep the house if you want it, or we’ll sell and divide the money. Whatever. That’s it. 7 years together and you’re just done. I stopped at the door, looked at her one last time. You were done 6 months ago when you kissed Derek.

 You were done every time you slept with him. Every time you lied to me, every time you let me believe that baby was mine. I’m just catching up to where you’ve been all along. I walked out of the house and didn’t look back. Drove to the hotel, checked into a long-term rental suite, and started the process of dismantling my life.

 Called a divorce attorney, and set up a consultation. called my boss and requested a transfer to our West Coast office as far from Dererick and Natalie as I could get. Called my parents and told them the DNA results. Listened to my mother sobb. Dererick tried to call 17 times over the next week. I blocked his number.

 Natalie sent long text messages begging for another chance. I stopped reading them. Her parents tried to ambush me at the hospital, demanding I reconsider, insisting I was being cruel. I had security remove them. The baby came home from Nikku after 6 days. Natalie named her Sophia May, not the name we’d chosen, which was something at least.

 Dererick apparently showed up at the hospital, held his daughter for the first time, broke down crying. Someone from my track team texted me that news thinking I’d want to know. I didn’t. The divorce was finalized 11 months later. Clean, quick, no custody battle because there was no child to battle over. Natalie got the house.

 I got my freedom and a fresh start 3,000 mi away in Seattle. Dererick and Natalie didn’t end up together, which was the only justice I got from any of this. She didn’t want him. Apparently, he was just the affair, the mistake, not the future. They worked out a custody arrangement for Sophia and maintained an awkward co-arenting relationship while avoiding me entirely. I rebuilt slowly.

 New job, new apartment, new life. Started dating eventually, though I was honest upfront about my history, about the trust issues and baggage. Some women ran immediately. Some stuck around long enough to realize I wasn’t ready. One finally stayed. Her name was Lauren, and she’d been through her own betrayal. understood the slow crawl back to believing in people.

 3 years after Sophia’s birth, Dererick sent one final email, just a few lines. I know you’ll never forgive me. I don’t deserve forgiveness, but I want you to know that being Sophia’s father is the only good thing I’ve ever done. And I think about what I destroyed every single day. I’m sorry I never responded, but I kept the email.

 Not as forgiveness, but as proof that actions have consequences that echo for years, that one choice can shatter families and destroy futures. And that some betrayals are so profound they can never be reconciled. Dererick got to be a father but lost his brother. Natalie got her daughter but lost her marriage. And I got my freedom but lost the family I’d dreamed of building.

 The only one who came out innocent was Sophia, a little girl who’d never asked to be born into chaos, who’d carry the weight of her parents’ choices for the rest of her life. In the end, everyone paid for those six months of deception. Some more than others. None of us as much as we deserved. All of us exactly as much as we could bear.