Victor Clarke shut his eyes. Thirtyfive years ago, Emily lay in a hospital ward, pale and exhausted. The doctors called it a miracle that both survived. He swore then that his son would be the happiest child on earth.
Dad, can you hear me? Pauls voice pulled Victor back to the present.
I hear you, lad. Just drifting off, Victor replied.
They were at a small café opposite Pauls office. Paul ordered a flat white; Victor had tea with a slice of lemon, their usual Saturday ritual.
So, hows the project? Victor asked.
We landed it! A threeyear contract. Time to think about a mortgage, Paul said, grinning.
Victor smiled. The boy had never failed himtop of his class at school, a firstclass degree, a fasttrack career.
Hows Linda? 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 a meeting in half an hour, he said.
Run along. See you tomorrow at Mums? Victor replied.
Sure thing. He watched Pauls tall, confident silhouette fade away, a living extension of himself.
At home, Emily was stirring a stew.
Hows Paul? she asked without turning from the pot.
Got the contract. Hes thrilled, Victor said.
Good lad. He wrapped his arms around Emilys shoulders. Forty years togetherillnesses, financial storms, the loss of parentsyet theyd endured.
Emily, remember how we dreamed of a child? Victor asked.
Like it was yesterday. You said wed have a son and name him Paul, she replied.
And we did, Victor whispered.
Emilys posture seemed oddly rigid.
Whats wrong? Victor asked.
Nothing. My eyes are stinging from the onion, she replied.
That evening, Victors cousin Michael called, voice crackling through the line.
Victor, mate! Hows it going? Michael asked.
Alright, you?
Retired now, but listenI ran into Paul in the city centre yesterday.
And?
Nothing special, just thought he didnt look like you at all. Not even like Emily.
What are you on about?
Just a thought. By the way, do you recall when Emily dated that what was his name David?
What David?
You know, the bloke you two split up with for half a year. She was seeing someone else then.
A cold shiver ran down Victors spine.
What are you talking about?
Forget it, it was ages ago. The point isfamily is strong, the son is good.
Victor lingered in the kitchen long after Emily had gone to bed, replaying old arguments he could barely recall. Emily had spent a few months with a friend in another townfour, maybe five? Then they reconciled and a year later Paul was born.
He opened his laptop, scrolling through photographs of his son. Pauls eyes, nose, heightnone matched Victors, not even Emilys. He takes after his mother, theyd said, yet he bore little resemblance to either.
Victor closed the laptop, trying to banish the intrusive thoughts. Michael loved gossip; Paul was his blood, his pride. But the dream stretched on, refusing sunrise.
The next day Victor couldnt focus at work; Michaels words echoed.
Emily, remember when we ran off from each other in our youth? he said that evening.
Emily froze, spoon hovering over the plate.
Why dredge up the past?
Just curiouswhere did you live then?
At Sophies place in Canterbury. Why?
Nothing. Michael called yesterday, we were reminiscing.
Emily set the plate down and fled the kitchen, moving oddly, as if the walls were shifting.
A week later Victor could bear it no longer. He booked a checkup, feigning a routine scan.
Doctor, can I ask about some tests? he said.
What kind?
Just paternity, theoretically.
The doctor chuckled. DNA test? Elementary. Two weeks and youll have results. Though at your agewhats the motive?
Just a favour for a friend, Victor lied.
At home he found Pauls old hairbrush, a few strands left. He clipped his own hair, placed the samples in a box, and mailed them off.
Two weeks stretched like two lifetimes. Emily kept asking what was happening; Victor brushed her off, blaming work.
On a Thursday morning the results arrived via email. Victors hands trembled as he opened the file.
Probability of paternity: 0%
He read it three, four times. Zero. Paul was not his son.
Victor slammed the computer shut, collapsing onto the sofa. An emptiness gaped where thirtyfive years of love, sacrifice, and pride had lived. Emily had always known.
Later that night Emily came home, bright from work.
Victor, Paul called. He and Linda will be over tomorrow. Well have your favourite roast, she said.
Emily, we need to talk, Victor warned, his voice trembling.
What about?
Sit down. She knelt opposite him, hands folded.
Paul isnt my son, he blurted.
Emilys face went ashen.
What are you saying?
I have the test. Zero percent. No blood.
She fell silent, tears gathering.
Victor?
Whos the father? That David you mentioned?
How do you know?
It doesnt matter. Just answer.
It was ages ago we fought, split I was lonely, confused then I came back, with his child.
I didnt know! I swear I thought it was yours! Emily sobbed.
Lies. Can you count?
She sniffed, I only realised after he was born. What could I have done? Destroy the family?
So youve been deceiving me for thirtyfive years.
I wasnt lyingjust silent. For us.
For yourselfcoward!
Victor rose, moving toward the door.
Where are you going?
I dont know. Need to think.
Dont go! Talk to me! Emily pleaded, but he slammed the door shut.
Rain hammered the pavement as Victor walked, the streetlights flickering like distant stars. How could he look Paul in the eye now? How to hold him? How to celebrate his triumphs? A strangers child, the fallout of a betrayal.
Tomorrow they would arrive, smiling, sharing news, while he pretended nothing had shifted. Yet everything had changed.
The next morning Victor skipped work, staring out the window. Emily tried to speak at breakfast, but he answered in monosyllables. At noon she left for her sisters cottage.
At five, Paul called.
Dad, well be there in an hour. Linda bought a cake.
Dont come, Victor said.
What? Why?
Just dont today.
Are you ill?
No. Lets postpone.
Dad, whats happening? Mum sounds strange too.
Victor hung up. Minutes later the phone rang again. He silenced it.
An hour later, frantic knocks rattled the front door.
Dad, open up! I know youre home! A voice shouted.
Victor sat unmoving in his armchair.
Whats wrong? Mums crying and wont explain!
The knocks turned into pounding fists.
Open or Ill break in!
Paul had a spare key. Victor remembered.
Come in, Paul, he called.
The boy burst in, hair disheveled, eyes wide.
Finally! Whats happening?
Come in. They sat in the living room, tension thick.
Dad, explain something.
Im not your father.
What?
Im not your father. Youre not mine by blood.
Pauls eyes darted, disbelief flashing.
Youre crazy?
I did a DNA test. Result: zero.
What test? What are you talking about?
Paternity. Im not your dad.
Paul sat in stunned silence, then whispered, So what now?
I dont know.
So after thirtyfive years you raise me, and now you just end it? Thats it?
You dont understand
What dont I understand? That Mum was with someone else? So what?
How does that matter? She lied to me!
You? Who lied to you? Am I at fault?
Victor stared into Pauls eyes, seeing the hurt of a child.
Dad, be honest. Whats changed? Im still the same.
Everythings changed.
What? Im no longer your son? In an instant?
You never were.
Paul stood, a hard edge to his voice.
Right, so you care about blood, not the years we lived together.
Its not that simple.
How isnt it simple? You learn of a test and instantly reject me.
Im not rejecting Paul snapped, Yesterday I was your son, today Im not!
He moved toward the door.
Where are you going?
Home. Sort out your own blood.
The door slammed; Victor was left alone.
Emily slipped in later.
Where have you been?
At Taras. I was thinking. Victor, lets talk properly.
What about?
Our family.
What family? You tore it apart thirtyfive years ago.
I built it! I gave birth, raised, loved!
Another mans son.
My son! And yours too!
Not mine.
Emily 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 knew the truth.
The truth is you were his real father, in every way that mattered, not the man who simply sired him, Emily said.
Victor stayed silent.
Paul cried today. An adult man crying! It hurts, Victor.
And does it hurt you?
It does. I get it. But hes not to blame.
Neither am I. Yet hes not my son.
Emily stood, voice shaking.
Then live with your test results. Were done without you.
That night Victor lay awake, recalling Pauls childhood fevers, his tears at injections, the bedtime stories Victor read aloud, the pride at school awards, the university graduation speech. All those moments felt like solid ground, yet the DNA report lay like a crack in the foundation.
A week passed. Victor went to work, returned home, ate in silence. Emily tried conversation; he answered in monosyllables. Paul stopped calling.
On Saturday Victor sat alone. Emily had gone to her sisters cottage. He flipped through old photo albums: Paul in his baby carriage, first steps, a birthday cake at three, a school assembly in a tiny suit, a graduation cap, a university podium. Each picture radiated love, genuine and lived. Could a test erase that?
Victor closed the album, tears finally spilling down his cheeks.
Later that evening Paul called.
Dad, can I come over?
Come in, Victor said.
Paul arrived half an hour later, eyes tired.
How are you? Victor asked.
Honestly, not great.
They sat in the living room, the silence heavy.
Dad, Ive figured something out. I dont care who my biological father is. To me, youre my dad. Thats final.
Victor looked at him.
Paul
Listen. Thirtyfive years you were my father. You taught me, protected me, Im proud of you. That DNA wont change anything.
But Im not yours
Father? Of course I am! Who drove me to the hospital when I broke my arm? Who sat at parentteacher meetings? Who paid for my tuition?
Victor was silent.
Dad, there are blood relatives, and there are parents by choice. Youre my parent by choice, and that matters more than any strand of DNA.
I dont know what to do now
Dont. Keep living. Were a family.
Paul, it hurts. It hurts a lot.
I know. The pain will pass, the family stays.
Paul stood.
Dad, tomorrow is Sunday. Come over, Laura will make her stew.
Im not sure
Please, come.
The next day Victor lingered over his coat. Emily waited, eyes downcast. Finally he slipped on his jacket.
Lets go.
At Pauls house the warmth was unchanged. Laura greeted him as if nothing had shifted. They talked about work, holiday plans, the ordinary chatter of a typical English weekend.
Victor watched Paul, the man who had called him dad for three and a half decades, sharing joys and worries, seeking advice. Was biology any more important than that?
After lunch Paul walked them to the car.
Thanks for coming, Dad.
Youre welcome, Victor replied.
For what?
For being here. For putting up with me. For still being my son.
Paul embraced him tightly.
Where will I go? Youre still my dad.
Back home Emily asked, How did it go?
Fine. Hes a good son.
Our son, Victor corrected.
Emilys eyes filled with relief, tears spilling.
Victor, Im sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.
I know. Forgive me too, for the past weeks, for the harshness.
So we keep going?
We do. No more secrets.
No more secrets. Victor hugged his wife. Thirtyfive years ago fate had given him a sonnot by blood, but by love. That proved stronger than any laboratory report.
Family isnt a strand of DNA. Its the years shared, the laughter and sorrow, the love that refuses to be measured. Paul was his son, and always would be.
