Victor Chapman closed his eyes. Thirtyfive years ago, Ethel lay in a hospital ward, pale and exhausted. The doctors called it a miracle that both survived. He swore to himself then: this boy would be the happiest child on earth.
Dad, can you hear me? Pauls voice pulled him back to the present.
I hear you, lad. Just lost in thought, Victor replied.
They sat in a tearoom opposite Pauls office in the City. Paul ordered a flat white, Victor a tea with a slice of lemonour usual Saturday ritual.
Whats the news on the project? Victor asked.
Weve landed it! A threeyear contract. Might finally think about a mortgage, Paul said.
Victor smiled. The lad had never let him down. Top of his class at school, a firstclass degree, a steady climb up the corporate ladder.
Hows Lucy? Victor pressed.
Everythings fine. She wants children, Im not ready yet. Work keeps me busy.
Dont dawdle, Paul. Time flies, Victor warned.
Paul glanced at his watch. Dad, Ive got to go. Meeting in half an hour.
Off you go. See you tomorrow at Mums?
Of course.
Victor watched his son leave, tall, lean, full of confidencehis pride, his continuation.
At home Ethel was preparing dinner.
Hows Paul? she asked without turning from the stove.
He got the contract. Hes thrilled.
Good on him.
Victor slipped his arm around Ethels shoulders. Forty years together, theyd weathered illness, money troubles, the loss of their parents. Still, the family had endured.
Ethel, remember how we used to dream of children? he said.
I remember it like yesterday. You said, Well have a son, and well call him Paul.
And we named him right.
Ethel froze, a strange look crossing her face.
Whats wrong? Victor asked.
Nothing. This onions making my eyes water, she replied.
That evening Michael Hargreaves, Victors cousin, called. It had been ages since theyd spoken.
Victor, old chap! How are you? Michaels voice crackled.
Fine enough. And you?
Retired now, believe it or not. Listen, I ran into Paul in the West End yesterday.
And?
Nothing special. Just thought he doesnt look like you at all. Neither does Ethel.
Michael, what rubbish are you spouting?
Dont take offence. Just a thought. By the way, do you remember that lad Ethel had back in the day what was his name David, I think?
What David?
You know, the one you both argued with and split up for months. She was seeing someone else then.
A cold shiver ran down Victors spine.
What are you on about, Michael?
Ah, never mind. It was ages ago. The point is, the familys solid, the sons a good lad.
After the call Victor lingered in the kitchen while Ethel slept. He tried to recall the argument theyd had. The reason escaped him. Ethel had gone to stay with a friend in another town for four or five months.
Theyd reconciled, and a year later Paul was born.
Victor turned on the computer and stared at the photos. Paul looked nothing like himno shared eyes, no nose, no height. He took after his mother, theyd always said, yet he bore little resemblance to Ethel either.
He shut the laptop, trying to banish foolish thoughts. Michael loved gossip, after all. And Paul was his son, his blood, his pride.
Sleep eluded him that night.
The next day Victor couldnt focus at work. Michaels words looped in his mind.
Ethel, he said that evening, do you remember when we ran off in our youth?
Ethel froze, a plate in her hand.
Why dig up the past?
Just curious. Where were you living then?
At Susans place in Canterbury. Why?
Nothing. Michael called yesterday, we were reminiscing.
Ethel set the plate down and hurried out of the kitchen, looking oddly unsettled.
A week later Victor could take it no longer. He booked a GP appointment under the pretense of a routine checkup.
Doctor, could I ask about some tests? he asked.
Which ones?
Um paternity, just hypothetically.
The doctor smiled. DNA test? Simple enough. Two weeks and well have results. Though at your age, what for?
Just a favour for a friend, Victor replied.
At home he found an old hairbrush belonging to Paul. A few strands remained; he clipped his own and sealed them for the lab.
Two weeks stretched like two years. Ethel kept asking what was happening, and he brushed it off as work pressure.
The results arrived on a Thursday morning. Victor opened the file with trembling hands.
Paternity probability: 0%
He read it three, then four times. Zero percent. Paul was not his son.
Victor slammed the computer shut and sank onto the sofa. An emptiness gnawed at him. Thirtyfive years he had loved a child who wasnt his, raised him, poured his heart and his savings into him. And Ethel had always known.
That evening she came home, bright from work.
Victor, Paul called. He and Lucy will be at ours tomorrow. Ill make his favourite fish pie, she said.
Ethel, we need to talk, Victor began, his voice making her uneasy.
What about?
Sit down.
She crossed her legs, palms resting on her knees.
Paul isnt my son, he said.
Ethel went pale.
What are you talking about?
I have the test. Zero percent. Zero.
She was silent for a moment, then wept.
Victor?
Whos the father? Was it that David?
How do you know?
It doesnt matter where it came from. Answer me.
It was long ago we fought, we split
And you went to him?
Not straight away. A month later, lonely and confused then I came back to you, with his child.
I didnt know! I swear I didnt! I thought he was yours!
Youre lying. Can you count?
Ethel sniffed. I only realised after the birth. What could I have done? Destroy the family?
So youve been lying to me for thirtyfive years.
I didnt lie. I kept quiet, for all of us.
For yourself! Coward!
Victor rose and walked to the door.
Where are you going?
I dont know. Need to think.
Dont go! Lets talk!
He slammed the door anyway. Rain pattered on the pavement as he trudged home, wondering how he could ever look Paul in the eye again, how to hug him, how to share in his triumphs when the child was, in truth, someone elses.
Tomorrow Paul and Lucy would arrive, smiling, sharing news, and he would have to pretend nothing had changed. Yet everything had.
The next day Victor skipped work, staring out the window. Ethel tried to speak in the morning, but he stayed silent. At noon she left for her sisters cottage.
At five, Paul rang.
Dad, well be there in an hour. Lucy bought a cake.
Dont come.
What? Why?
Just dont today.
Are you ill?
No. Lets postpone.
Dad, whats happening? Mum sounds strange too.
Victor hung up. Ten minutes later the phone rang again. He let it ring once more, then silenced it.
An hour later a frantic knock came.
Dad, open up! I know youre home!
Victor sat unmoving in his armchair.
Dad, whats wrong? Mums crying and wont explain!
The knocking grew louder, then turned into pounding.
Open up or Ill break the door down!
Paul had a spare key. Victor remembered.
Paul, Im coming!
He rose, opened the door, and found Paul dishevelled, eyes wide.
Finally! Whats going on?
Come in.
They sat, the livingroom heavy with tension.
Dad, explain something, Paul said.
Youre not my son, Victor said.
What?
Not my son. Not mine.
Pauls eyes widened.
Are you mad?
I did a test. DNA. It came back zero.
What test? What are you on about?
Paternity. Im not your father.
Paul was silent for a heartbeat, then asked quietly, And now?
I dont know.
So after thirtyfive years of raising me, you just drop this? Is this the end?
You dont understand what I dont understand is that Mum was with someone else. And what of that?
What of that? She deceived me!
You? Who deceived you? Am I at fault?
Victor looked into Pauls eyes and saw the hurt of a child still yearning for a parent.
Dad, tell me honestly. Whats changed? Im still the same.
Everythings changed.
What? Im no longer your son? In a heartbeat?
You were never my son.
Paul stood abruptly.
Right, so blood matters to you, not the years weve lived together.
Its not that simple.
How could it be simple? You found out about the test and renounced me at once.
Im not renouncing
Renouncing! Yesterday I was your son, today Im not!
Paul headed for the door.
Where are you going?
Home. You sort out your own blood.
The door slammed. Victor was left alone.
Ethel came back that night.
Where have you been?
At Susans. I was thinking. Victor, can we talk properly?
What about?
Us. The family.
What family? You broke it thirtyfive years ago.
I built it! I gave birth, I raised, I loved!
Another mans son.
My son! And yours too!
Not mine.
Ethel sat opposite him.
Victor, remember how happy you were when he was born, how you rocked him, taught him to walk.
That was before I learned the truth.
The truth is you were his father, truly, not the man who sired him and vanished.
Victor fell silent.
Paul cried today. A grown man crying! It hurts, Victor.
And I?
It hurts. I get it. But hes not to blame.
Neither am I. Yet to me hes no one.
No one? Hes your son!
Not my son.
Ethel rose.
Then live with your tests. Were done without you.
That night Victor could not sleep. He recalled Pauls childhood fevers, the sting of injections, the bedtime stories Victor read. He remembered the pride at school performances, the graduation, the university speech where Paul thanked his parents.
Had all that mean nothing because of a piece of paper?
A week passed. Victor went to work, returned home, ate in silence. Ethel tried conversation; he replied curtly. Paul stopped calling.
On Saturday Victor sat alone. Ethel was away at her sisters cottage. He leafed through old photo albums: Paul in his pram, his first steps, a birthday cake at three, the school assembly in a little uniform, the graduation, the university hall where he thanked his parents. Every picture radiated love, genuine, lived.
Victor closed the album and weptfor the first time all week.
That evening Paul rang.
Dad, can I come over?
Come on in.
Paul arrived half an hour later, looking tired.
How are you? Victor asked.
Fine enough. You?
Not great.
They sat in the sitting room, silence stretching between them.
Dad, Ive figured something out. I dont care who the biological father is. To me youre my dad. Thats final.
Victor looked at his son.
Paul
Let me finish. Thirtyfive years youve been my father. You taught me, protected me, Im proud of you. That test wont change it.
But Im not your
Father? I am your father, plain and simple. Who drove me to the hospital when I broke my arm? Who sat at parentteacher meetings? Who paid for my tuition?
Victor stared, speechless.
Dad, there are bloodrelated parents and parents by life. Youre my lifeparent. That matters more than any strand of DNA.
I dont know what to do now
Dont. Keep living. Were still a family.
Paul, it hurts. It hurts a lot.
I know. The pain will pass. The family will remain.
Paul rose.
Dad, tomorrows Sunday. Come over, Lucys making stew.
Im not sure
Please. Come.
The next morning Victor lingered, pulling on his coat. Ethel waited, silent. At last he stepped out.
At Pauls house the warmth was as ever. Lucy greeted him as if nothing had shifted. They talked about work, holidays, the usual family chatter.
Victor watched Paul, the man who had called him dad for three and a half decades, sharing joys and worries, asking for advice, caring for his mother. Could biology outweigh that?
After lunch Paul escorted them to the car.
Thanks for coming, Dad, he said.
Thank you, Victor replied.
For what?
For being here. For putting up with me. For being my son.
Paul embraced him.
Where will I go? Youre still my dad.
At home Ethel asked, How was it?
Fine. Our sons a good lad.
Our?
Our son. My son. Our son.
Ethels eyes filled with tears of relief.
Victor, Im sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.
I know. And you, too, must forgive me for those years, for the harshness.
So we keep going?
We do. No more secrets.
No secrets, Ethel echoed.
Victor hugged his wife. Thirtyfive years ago fate had given him a sonnot by blood, but by love. That proved to be the truer inheritance.
Family isnt a strand of DNA. Its the years shared, the laughter and sorrow divided equally, the love that endures beyond any test. Paul was his son, and would remain so forever.
