Victor shut his eyes. Thirtyfive years ago, Martha lay in a hospital ward, pale and exhausted. The doctors called it a miracle that theyd both survived. Hed sworn then that the boy they were expecting would be the happiest child on earth.
Dad, can you hear me? Pauls voice pulled Victor back to the present.
I hear you, son. Just lost in thought.
They sat in a little café opposite Pauls office in Birmingham. Paul ordered a latte, Victor a tea with a slice of lemonSaturday ritual.
So, hows the project going? Victor asked.
Got it! A threeyear contract, can finally think about a mortgage.
Victor smiled. The boy had never let him down. Top of his class at school, a firstclass degree, a steady climb at work.
Hows Laura? Victor pressed.
Everythings fine. She wants kids, Im not ready yetworks a nightmare.
Dont dawdle, Paul. Time flies.
Paul glanced at his watch.
Dad, Ive got to go. Meeting in half an hour.
Run along. See you tomorrow at Mums?
Definitely.
Victor watched his son leave, tall, lean, confidence radiatinghis pride, his legacy.
At home Martha was preparing dinner.
Hows Paul? she asked without turning from the stove.
Got the contract. Hes over the moon.
Good lad.
Victor slipped his arm around Marthas shoulders. Forty years together, through sickness, money troubles, the loss of their parentsstill theyd endured.
Martha, remember how we dreamed of kids?
Like it was yesterday. You said wed have a son and name him Paul.
And we did.
Martha paused, a strange tension in her posture.
Whats wrong? Victor asked.
Nothing. This onion is making my eyes sting.
That evening Victors cousin Michael calledyears without speaking.
Victor, hows it going?
Fine, you?
Retired now. Yesterday I ran into Paul in the city centre.
And?
Nothing special, just thoughthe doesnt look like you or Martha at all.
What are you on about?
Just a thought. Remember when Martha had that boyfriendwhat was his nameDerek?
Which Derek?
You know, the one you both argued with and split for six months. She was seeing someone else.
A cold shiver ran down Victors spine.
What are you saying?
Forget it, Michael. It was ages ago. The important thing is the family is solid, the son is a good lad.
After the call Victor lingered in the kitchen, Martha already asleep, replaying that old quarrel. They had indeed fought, but he could no longer recall why. Martha had gone to a friends flat in Leeds for a few monthsfour? five?
Theyd patched things up, and a year later Paul was born.
Victor turned on his computer, scrolling through photos of his son. Paul shared none of his eyes, his nose, his heightalways the joke that he took after his mother, yet he didnt look much like either of them. He closed the laptop, trying to banish the intrusive thoughts. Michael loved gossip, but Paul was his son, his blood, his pride. Sleep eluded him.
The next day Victor couldnt focus at work. Michaels words looped in his head.
Martha, he said that evening, do you remember when we split up in our youth?
Martha froze, a plate in her hands.
Why dig up the past?
Just curious. Where were you living?
At Sues flat in Leeds. Why?
Nothing. Michael called yesterday, reminiscing.
Martha set the plate down and hurried out of the kitchen, her movements oddly stiff. Victor watched her go.
A week later he could take it no longer and booked an appointment under the pretense of a routine health check.
Doctor, could I have a test?
What kind?
Just paternity. Purely theoretical.
The doctor smiled.
A DNA test? Easy. Two weeks and youll have the result. Though Im surprised at your age.
Just a favour for a friend.
Back home Victor found an old hairbrush with a few strands of Pauls hair. He added his own and sent the sample to the lab three days later.
Two weeks dragged like years. Martha kept asking what was wrong; he brushed it off as work pressure. The results arrived Thursday morning. Victors hands trembled as he opened the file.
Paternity probability: 0%.
He read it three, then four times. Zero percent. Paul wasnt his son.
Victor slammed the laptop shut, sank onto the sofa, and felt a hollowness gnaw at him. Thirtyfive years hed loved anothers child, raised him, poured his soul and money into him. And Martha had known all along.
That night she came home, cheery from work.
Victor, Paul called. He and Laura will be over tomorrow. Im making his favourite shepherds pie.
Martha, we need to talk.
Something in his voice made her tense.
What about?
Sit down.
She sat opposite him, hands clasped.
Paul isnt my son.
Marthas face went white.
What are you saying?
I have the test.
The DNA test? Zero percent, Martha. Zero.
She was silent for a beat, then started to sob.
Victor
Whos the father? Was it Derek?
How do you know?
It doesnt matter. Answer me.
It was ages ago we argued, we split
And you went straight to him?
No, a month later. I was lonely, confused
And then you came back to me with his child.
I didnt know! I swear I didnt! I thought it was yours!
Youre lying. Can you even count?
Martha hiccuped.
I realised after he was born, but what could I do? Destroy the family?
So for thirtyfive years youve been lying to me.
I didnt lie I kept quiet. For all of us.
For yourself! Coward!
Victor stood, heading for the door.
Where are you going?
Dont know. Need to think.
Victor, dont leave! Talk to me!
He slammed the door.
Rain hammered the streets as Victor walked, wondering how he could ever look Paul in the eye again, hug him, share his triumphs. A strangers child, the fallout of his wifes betrayal.
Tomorrow theyd come, smiling, sharing news, and hed have to pretend nothing had changed. Yet everything had.
The next day Victor didnt go to work. He stared out the window. Martha tried to speak in the morning, but he stayed silent. At noon she left to visit her sister.
At five, Paul called.
Dad, well be there in an hour. Laura bought a cake.
Dont come.
What? Why?
Just dont today.
Are you ill?
No. Lets postpone.
Dad, whats happening? Mums acting strange too.
Victor hung up. Ten minutes later Paul rang again, then once more, and Victor finally put his phone on mute.
An hour later there was a frantic knock.
Dad, open up! I know youre home!
Victor sat motionless in his armchair.
Dad, whats wrong? Mums crying and wont explain!
The knocking turned into pounding.
Open the door or Ill break in!
Paul had a spare key. Victor remembered.
Paul, Im letting you in.
He opened the door to a dishevelled, anxious Paul.
Finally! Whats going on?
Come in.
They sat in the living room, Pauls eyes searching.
Dad, tell me something.
Youre not my son.
What?
Youre not my son. Im not your father.
Pauls eyes widened.
Youre crazy.
I did a DNA test. Result was zero.
What test?
The paternity test. Im not your father.
Paul was silent for a long breath, then whispered, What now?
I dont know.
So after thirtyfive years you raise me, then you drop this like its nothing?
I dont understand
What dont you understand? That Mum was with someone else? And that it matters?
How does it matter? She cheated on me!
You? Who cheated on you? Am I to blame?
Victor stared at Pauls pained eyes, remembering the child who once clutched his hand.
Dad, tell me honestly. Whats changed? Im still the same.
Everythings changed.
What? Im no longer your son? In an instant?
You were never my son.
Paul stood abruptly.
Okay, so blood is all that matters to you, not the years we lived together.
Its not that simple.
How could it be simple? You learned about the test and immediately disowned me.
Im not disowning you
You are! Yesterday I was your son, today Im not!
Paul headed for the door.
Where are you going?
Home. Deal with your own blood.
The door slammed. Victor was left alone.
That evening Martha returned.
Where have you been?
At Sues. Thought we could talk properly.
What about?
Our family.
What family? You tore it apart thirtyfive years ago.
I built it! Gave birth, raised him, loved him!
A strangers son.
My son! Yours too!
Not mine.
Martha sat down.
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, the real one, not the man who disappeared.
Victor stayed silent.
Paul cried today. A grown man crying! Hes hurting, Victor.
And I?
Im hurting too. But is he to blame?
No, nothing. Yet to me hes nothing.
Martha stood, eyes wet.
Then live with your test results. Were done without you.
Victor lay awake that night, recalling Pauls childhood fevers, the tears over injections, the bedtime stories Victor told, the pride at school and university. Could a sheet of paper erase all that?
A week passed. Victor went to work, ate in silence, Marthas attempts at conversation met monosyllabic replies. Paul stopped calling.
On Saturday Victor was alone at home; Martha had gone to her sisters cottage. He leafed through old photo albums: Paul in his pram, first steps, a threeyearold birthday cake, school assemblies in a tiny suit, graduation smiles, university podium thanks. Every picture sang of genuine love. Could a DNA result rewrite that?
Victor closed the album and weptfor the first time all week.
That night Paul called.
Dad, can I come over?
Come.
Paul arrived an hour later, looking 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 Dad. End of story.
Victor looked at his son.
Paul
Let me finish. Thirtyfive years you were my father. You taught me, protected me, Im proud of you. That test changes nothing.
But Im not yours
Father? Of course I am! Who drove me to the hospital when I broke my arm? Who attended parentteacher meetings? Who paid for my tuition?
Victor was speechless.
Dad, theres bloodrelated parents and theres liferelated parents. Youre my parent by life, and 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 get it. The pain will fade. The family stays.
Paul stood.
Dad, tomorrows Sunday. Come over for dinner. Lauras making stew.
Im not sure
Please, come.
The next morning Victor took ages to get ready. Martha waited, quiet. Finally he slipped on his coat.
Lets go.
At Pauls house the warmth was unchanged. Laura greeted them cheerfully, as if nothing had shifted. They talked about work, holiday plans, the usual banter. Victor watched Paul, the man whod called him Dad for thirtyfive years, sharing joys and worries, seeking advice. Was biology any more important than that?
After lunch Paul saw them to the car.
Thanks for coming, Dad.
Thank you.
Why?
For being here. For putting up with me. For staying my son.
Paul embraced him.
Where will I go? Youre still my dad.
Back home Martha asked, How was it?
Fine. Weve got a good son.
A good son?
Yes, our son.
Martha burst into tears of relief.
Im sorry, Victor. I never meant to hurt you.
I know. And Im sorry toofor the harshness, for the weeks.
So we keep going?
We do. No more secrets.
No more secrets.
Victor held his wife, remembering that thirtyfive years ago fate had given him a sonnot by blood, but by love. That love proved stronger than any test.
Family isnt DNA. Its the years spent together, the laughter and grief shared, the love that endures beyond any laboratory result.
Paul would always be his son, and that would never change.
