The DNA samples were taken before midnight.
A nurse swabbed the inside of my cheek while another nurse collected samples from Julian.
The babies couldn’t be swabbed so easily because they were still in the NICU, so the hospital arranged for the testing to be handled properly through the neonatal team.
Julian stood beside me the entire time.
He looked like a man waiting for a verdict.
I stared out the window.
“Do you really think I cheated on you?”
He didn’t answer.
That silence hurt more than an accusation.
Finally, he whispered, “I don’t know what to think.”
I turned toward him.
“You should have thought about who I was before you married me.”
“I know.”
“You should have thought about that before you let your mother walk into my room and accuse me six hours after I nearly died.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I know.”
The door opened.
Dr. Greene stepped inside.
“There’s something you both need to understand.”
Julian looked up.
“The blood type discrepancy is not proof of anything. Genetics can be more complicated than the simple chart your mother is relying on.”
Vivian had apparently been making phone calls throughout the evening.
“Then why did she sound so certain?”
Dr. Greene hesitated.
“Because someone gave her information.”
“What information?”
“A copy of an old medical record.”
Julian frowned.
“Whose?”
“Yours.”
I looked at him.
“What old record?”
Dr. Greene handed him a photocopy.
Julian stared at it.
His face slowly changed.
“What?”
He handed it to me.
It was a blood-type report from when he was six years old.
It said:
AB POSITIVE.
But underneath the result was a handwritten correction.
Repeat testing recommended.
I looked at Julian.
“Did you ever have the repeat test?”
He shook his head.
“No.”
Dr. Greene nodded.
“Then we have another possibility.”
“What?”
“Your blood type may have been entered incorrectly into your records when you were a child.”
Julian stared at the paper.
But I noticed something else.
The handwriting beneath the result wasn’t from a hospital.
It looked like a handwritten note added years later.
And Vivian had brought that exact document into my room.
Someone had wanted us to see it.
Someone had planned this.
PART 3 — THE FIRST RESULT
The following morning, the first DNA result arrived.
Julian and I were sitting in the waiting room outside the NICU.
Neither of us spoke.
A genetic counselor approached.
“Mr. Whitmore?”
Julian stood.
“Yes.”
She handed him the envelope.
His hands trembled.
He opened it.
I watched his eyes move across the page.
Then he looked at me.
“What does it say?”
He couldn’t speak.
The counselor answered.
“The child identified as Baby Girl A is genetically related to you.”
I closed my eyes.
One baby.
My baby.
Our baby.
The counselor continued.
“The probability of paternity is greater than 99.99%.”
Julian let out a breath.
Then he began crying.
He covered his face.
“I knew it.”
I looked at him.
“You said you didn’t.”
“I was scared.”
“You were willing to believe your mother over me.”
He nodded.
“I was wrong.”
The counselor paused.
“There are still two more results pending.”
Julian looked at her.
“Why?”
“The samples are being processed separately.”
I knew what he was thinking.
What if the other two weren’t his?
I knew what I was thinking.
What if someone had tampered with the samples?
Then the counselor said something unexpected.
“There is another issue.”
“What?”
“The laboratory received a request to release the children’s genetic information to a third party.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who?”
She looked at the paperwork.
“Vivian Whitmore.”
Julian’s face went white.
“She has no authorization.”
“I know.”
The counselor closed the folder.
“We rejected the request.”
For the first time, Julian looked genuinely angry with his mother.
PART 4 — THE WOMAN WHO HAD A PLAN
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