Inconclusive.

And then, the words that shattered him: Jamie wasn’t his.

The paper crumpled in his fist. His mind reeled.

That night, he drove to Paulina’s mother’s house, gripping the results like a lifeline. When she opened the door, her warm smile faded at the sight of his face.

He didn’t waste time. He dropped the paper onto the coffee table. “Did you know?”

Her eyes flickered with pain. “Daniel, I—”

“DID. YOU. KNOW?” His voice was sharp, cutting through the silence.

Tears welled in her eyes. “She told me,” she whispered. “Paulina… she made a mistake. A single night. A work party. She was terrified. She wasn’t sure. She begged me not to tell you.”

“You both lied to me?” His voice cracked. “I held her hand as she died. I promised to care for OUR baby. And you knew?”

Her voice trembled. “He’s still your son. The only father he’s ever known.”

Daniel shook his head, unable to process the betrayal. Without another word, he walked out, leaving her sobs behind.

That night, he sat beside Jamie’s crib, watching him sleep. The moonlight cast soft shadows across his tiny face. Paulina’s laugh, her warmth, her love—it all came flooding back, tangled with the pain of her deception.

“Your mama made mistakes,” he whispered, stroking Jamie’s tiny fingers. “Big ones. And I don’t know how to forgive her yet.”

Jamie sighed in his sleep, still gripping Daniel’s finger.

“But you…” His voice wavered. “You didn’t ask for any of this. And this past year—every fever, every smile, every moment—it was real. It was ours.”

The betrayal still stung, but as he looked at Jamie, love overshadowed the pain.

Blood didn’t define a father. Love did.

Jamie wasn’t his by birth, but he was his in every way that truly mattered. And that was enough. More than enough.