Chapter 4 - THE DNA TEST
Ethan wanted a DNA test immediately.
I agreed.
Not at a Blackwood clinic.
Not through family lawyers.
Independent laboratory.
Two attorneys present for collection.
Chain of custody.
No shortcuts.
Ethan accepted every condition.
That mattered.
Noah did not understand why someone rubbed a swab inside his cheek.
I told him it was a family medical test.
That was enough for now.
He asked if it hurt.
It did not.
Then he asked if Ethan had to do it too.
“Yes.”
Noah grinned.
“Good.”
Three days.
That was how long results would take.
Three days became torture.
Ethan called once.
I did not answer.
He texted:
Can I ask how Noah is?
I stared at the message.
Then replied:
Fine.
He wrote:
What does he like?
I thought.
Dinosaurs. Trains. Pancakes. Space. Hates peas.
Three dots.
Then:
I hate peas too.
I did not respond.
It was too much.
Too ordinary.
The results arrived at 9:14 Wednesday morning.
Probability of paternity:
99.9998%.
Ethan Blackwood was Noah’s father.
I cried first.
Not because I doubted.
Because certainty closes doors you have kept emotionally cracked for years.
I called Ethan.
He answered before the first ring finished.
“Emma?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
I could hear him breathing.
“He’s yours.”
Nothing.
Then a sound.
He was crying.
Ethan Blackwood, who had once negotiated a billion-dollar property acquisition without changing expression, could not speak.
Eventually:
“Thank you.”
For what?
I did not ask.
Maybe for testing.
Maybe for telling him.
Maybe for not saying it cruelly.
Then:
“Can I see him?”
I looked at Noah eating cereal at the kitchen counter.
“Yes.”
But slowly.
At a child therapist’s recommendation, we began carefully.
First:
Ethan was someone important from Mom’s past.
Then:
Ethan knew Grandpa Richard.
Then:
Ethan was his biological father.
Noah stared at me.
Then at Ethan.
Then asked:
“Why didn’t he come before?”
There it was.
The question adults had built seven years of lies around.
Ethan answered himself.
“Because I didn’t know.”
Noah frowned.
“Mom knew.”
“Yes.”
“Grandpa knows.”
“Now.”
“Why didn’t anybody tell you?”
Ethan looked at me.
Then back at Noah.
“Some adults made bad choices.”
“Mom?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Good.
“Me?”
“No.”
“Grandpa?”
Richard, sitting across the room, winced.
Ethan said:
“Grandpa made mistakes too.”
Richard accepted that.
Noah thought about it.
Then asked the most important question.
“Are you going away?”
Ethan’s face broke.
“No.”
I intervened.
“You can’t promise that nothing ever changes.”
Ethan nodded.
Then corrected:
“I will keep trying to be part of your life as long as you want me there.”
Better.
Noah considered.
“Can you come see my train set?”
Ethan cried again.
Quietly.
“Yes.”
That afternoon, while Ethan sat on the floor learning the difference between freight engines and passenger engines, Richard pulled me aside.
“We found something.”
“What?”
“Alan Hale’s private archive.”
My stomach tightened.
After his death, Victoria inherited storage units.
She had never opened one.
Now she had.
Inside were Margaret’s correspondence files.
Letters.
Bank records.
Copies of my mail.
My letters to Ethan.
All twelve.
Never delivered.
My hands began shaking.
Richard continued:
“And there’s one more envelope.”
“To who?”
“You.”
“From Margaret?”
“No.”
His expression changed.
“From Ethan.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“Dated seven years ago.”
May you like
Ethan had written to me.
And someone had hidden his letter too.
