“You want what?”
“Paternity tests.”
“For all three?”
“Yes.”
Something inside me seemed to separate from the pain and exhaustion.
I had carried those babies through months of bed rest, injections, specialist appointments, bleeding scares, and nights when Gavin slept peacefully while I counted movements because I was terrified one baby had gone too quiet.
And now he stood there looking at me as if I owed him proof of my character.
“Get out,” I whispered.
“Mara—”
“Get out.”
Diane stepped forward.
“Maybe everyone should calm down.”
I turned toward her.
Her expression wasn’t shocked.
That hurt almost as much.
“You knew?”
She hesitated.
That was my answer.
Gavin rubbed the back of his neck.
“I told Mom I had concerns.”
“Concerns?”
He lowered his voice as though that made the humiliation more respectful.
“You worked late a lot before you went on leave.”
“I’m a commercial insurance analyst. Quarter-end existed before our marriage.”
“You were distant.”
“I was pregnant with three babies.”
“You stopped wanting me near you.”
“My doctor told me pelvic pressure and contractions meant I should rest.”
Diane sighed.
“If there’s nothing to hide, Mara, the tests shouldn’t bother you.”
I looked at her for several seconds.
“What bothers me is that your son waited until I was trapped in a hospital bed to accuse me.”
Gavin’s face hardened.
“No one is trapping you.”
“You brought this up six hours after I gave birth.”
“I have a right to know.”
“You have three daughters.”
“I have three babies my wife says are my daughters.”
The nurse inhaled sharply.
That sentence did something to me.
Not because I doubted myself.
Because I suddenly understood this wasn’t fear.
It was preparation.
I looked at Gavin more carefully.
He wasn’t panicked.
He wasn’t devastated.
He was controlled.
Too controlled.
“Why today?” I asked.
“What?”
“Why did you already know you wanted testing today?”
He said nothing.
I reached for my phone on the bedside tray.
Diane moved slightly.
That was when I noticed Gavin’s phone lying beside my water cup.
The screen lit up.
An email notification appeared.
NorthStar Genetic Labs — Appointment Confirmation.
My heartbeat changed.
I reached for the phone before Gavin could.
He grabbed it.
Too late.
I had already seen the date.
The appointment had been booked four days earlier.
Before I went into labor.
Before Gavin saw our daughters.
Before he could possibly decide they “didn’t look like him.”
“You scheduled the tests before they were born.”
“Mara.”
“You planned this.”
“I wanted options.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“You planned to accuse me.”
Diane said quietly, “Gavin, you told me you were only thinking about it.”
He glanced at her.
“I knew I’d probably want confirmation.”
“Confirmation of what?”
He looked at me.
I saw something almost cruel in how calmly he answered.
“That I’m not signing myself into a legal mess without knowing the truth.”
The room became very quiet.
The nurse walked to my side.
“Mrs. Sullivan, do you want visitors removed?”
Before I could answer, June started fussing.
A tiny squeaking cry.
The sound cut through everything.
I turned immediately.
“I’ve got her,” the nurse said.
She lifted June carefully and brought her toward me.
June’s knit hospital cap had slipped over one eye.
The nurse smiled faintly.
“Let’s fix this.”
She pulled the cap back.
Then stopped.
June had been born with thick dark hair.
But right at the center of her hairline was a narrow triangular streak of pure white.
Not gray.
White.
The nurses had noticed it after delivery and called it unusual but probably harmless, something for our pediatrician to document.
I had thought it was beautiful.
Like someone had touched one tiny brush of moonlight to her head.
Diane didn’t think it was beautiful.
The coffee cup slipped from her fingers.
It hit the floor.
Coffee splashed across the tile.
“Mom?”
Diane stared at June.
Her face drained of color.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
Gavin frowned.
“What is wrong with you?”
Diane stepped closer.
“Take off the other hats.”
The nurse looked at me.
I nodded slowly.
She removed Lila’s cap.
The same white forelock appeared against dark hair.
Diane covered her mouth.
Maeve’s cap came off next.
Another white streak.
Identical placement.
Three babies.
Three tiny white marks.
Diane began to cry.
Not misty-eyed crying.
Not emotional-grandmother crying.
She backed against the wall as if something from thirty-eight years ago had just walked into my hospital room.
Gavin looked between her and the babies.
“Mom, what is this?”
She shook her head.
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“I thought it ended with him.”
Gavin’s expression changed.
“With who?”
Diane stared at the three bassinets.
I had never seen terror look so much like recognition.
She whispered, “Caleb.”
Gavin went still.
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