Victor Harper closed his eyes, the memory pulling him back thirtyfive years. In a bleak hospital ward, Margaret lay gaunt and pale, her breath shallow. The doctors had called it a miracle that both survived. He had sworn then that his son would grow up the happiest child on earth.
Dad, can you hear me? Pauls voice snapped him to the present.
I hear you, son. Just lost in thought, Victor replied.
They sat in a small café opposite Victors City office. Paul ordered a latte; Victor took tea with a slice of lemon their Saturday ritual.
So, hows the project? Victor asked.
Weve landed it! A threeyear contract, can finally think about a mortgage, Paul said, grinning.
Victor smiled. The boy had never let him down top of his class at school, honours at university, a fastrising career.
And Lena? Victor pressed.
All good. She wants kids, Im not ready yet. Works relentless.
Dont stall, Paul. Time flies.
Paul checked his watch. Dad, Ive got a meeting in half an hour.
Go on. Well see Mom tomorrow?
Definitely.
Victor watched his son walk away tall, confident, the living embodiment of his pride and his legacy.
At home, Margaret was busy preparing lunch.
Hows Paul? she asked without turning from the stove.
He got the contract. Hes thrilled.
Good lad.
Victor slipped his arm around Margarets shoulders. Forty years together, theyd weathered illness, debt, the loss of parents. The family had endured.
Remember when we dreamed of having children? Victor asked.
Every night. You said if we had a boy, wed name him Paul.
And we did right.
Margaret froze, a strange tension in her posture.
Whats wrong? Victor asked.
Nothing. This onions getting into my eyes, she muttered.
That evening, Victors cousin Michael called. It had been ages.
Victor, old chap, hows it going?
Fine, you?
Retired now. I bumped into Paul downtown yesterday.
And?
Nothing special, just thought he doesnt look like you at all. Neither does Margaret.
What are you on about?
Come on, dont be offended. Just a thought. By the way, do you remember Margarets first boyfriend what was his name David, I think?
David?
Remember the split? You two were apart for months. She was seeing someone else.
A cold shiver ran down Victors spine.
What are you saying, Michael?
Oh, drop it. Its ancient history. The important thing is the familys strong, the sons a good lad.
After the call, Victor lingered in the kitchen while Margaret slept. He tried to piece together the past. Yes, theyd quarreled once, over something he couldnt recall. Margaret had gone to stay with a friend in another town for several months maybe four, maybe five before they patched things up. A year later Paul was born.
Victor switched on the computer, scrolling through photos of his son. The eyes, the nose, the height none matched Margarets features, yet none were Victors either. He must have taken after his mother, they always said. The resemblance was vague.
He closed the laptop, trying to banish the intrusive thoughts. Michael loved gossip, and Paul was his son, his blood, his pride. Sleep eluded him.
The next day, at work, Victor couldnt focus. Michaels words echoed.
Margaret, he said that evening, do you remember when we ran off from each other in our youth?
Margaret paused, a plate halfway to the table.
Why dig up old wounds?
Just curious. Where were you living then?
At Susans place in York. Why?
Nothing. Michael called yesterday, we were reminiscing.
Margaret set the plate down and fled the kitchen, her demeanor oddly strained.
A week later, Victors nerves snapped. He booked a private appointment, citing a routine checkup.
Doctor, may I ask about a particular test? he inquired.
What sort of test?
Just a paternity test. Purely theoretical.
The doctor smiled. DNA analysis, simple enough. Two weeks and youll have results. Though Im curious whats the motive at your age?
Just a question for a friend.
Back home, Victor found Pauls old hairbrush, plucked a few strands, and mixed his own. He sent the sample to the lab.
Two weeks stretched like a lifetime. Margaret kept asking what was keeping him away; he brushed it off as work. When the email finally arrived on a Thursday morning, Victors hands trembled as he opened the file.
Paternity probability: 0%
He read it repeatedly zero. Paul was not his son.
The revelation slammed Victor onto the sofa, a hollow scream echoing in his mind. Thirtyfive years of loving, raising, and investing in a child who wasnt his by blood. Margaret had always known.
That night, Margaret walked in from work, brighteyed.
Victor, Paul called. Hell be at our place tomorrow with Lena. Ill make his favourite shepherds pie.
Margaret, we need to talk, Victor said, his voice tight.
What about?
Sit down.
She obeyed, palms folded.
Paul isnt my son.
Margarets face drained.
What are you talking about?
I have the results. DNA. Zero percent.
She sat silent, then tears streamed down her cheeks.
Victor?
Whos the father? Was it that David?
How do you know?
Doesnt matter. Just tell me.
It was ages ago we argued, split, I was lonely, confused then I went back to you, with his child.
I didnt know! I swear I didnt! I thought you were the father!
Youre lying. Do the math.
Margaret choked, sobbing.
I realized after he was born, but what could I have done? Destroy the family?
So for thirtyfive years youve been lying to me.
I didnt lie, I kept quiet. For all of us.
For yourself, you coward!
Victor rose, heading for the door.
Where are you going?
I dont know. Need to think.
Dont leave! Talk to me!
He slammed the door shut. Rain hammered the streets as Victor paced, wondering how to look Paul in the eye, how to hug him, how to celebrate his achievements when the child was, in truth, anothers.
The next morning Victor skipped work, staring out the window. Margaret tried to speak, but he gave curt replies. At lunch she left to visit her sister.
At five, Paul rang.
Dad, well be there in an hour. Lena bought a cake.
Dont come, Victor snapped.
What? Why?
Just dont.
Are you ill?
No. Lets postpone.
Dad, whats happening? Moms acting strange.
Victor hung up. Ten minutes later the phone rang again, then again. He silenced it.
An hour later there was a frantic knock.
Dad, open up! I know youre home!
Victor stayed rooted in his armchair.
Dad, whats wrong? Mums crying, she wont explain!
The knocking turned into pounding.
Open the door or Ill break in!
Paul had a spare key. Victor remembered.
Paul, Im coming.
He rose, opened the door. Paul stood dishevelled, eyes wide.
Finally! Whats going on?
Come in.
They sat. Pauls stare was sharp.
Dad, explain something.
Youre not my son, Victor said flatly.
What?
Im not your father. DNA says so.
Pauls eyes widened.
Youre crazy?
Its a paternity test. The result is zero.
What test? What are you talking about?
The test for fatherhood. Im not your dad.
Paul sat, the silence stretching. Then, quietly:
So what now?
I dont know.
You raised me for thirtyfive years, and now that you have a test you throw everything away? Is this the end?
You dont understand
What dont I understand? That Mom was with someone else? And what then?
What then? She deceived me!
You? Who deceived you? Am I at fault?
Victor met Pauls eyes, seeing the hurt of a child.
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, fists clenched.
So blood matters more than the years weve lived?
Its not that simple.
How isnt it? You learn about the test and instantly renounce me.
Im not renouncing you
You are! Yesterday I was your son, today Im not!
Paul walked to the door.
Where are you going?
Home. You sort out your blood.
The door slammed. Victor was left alone.
Later Margaret slipped in.
Where have you been?
At Susans. I thought we could talk normally.
What about?
Us. The family.
What family? You broke it thirtyfive years ago.
I built it! I gave birth, raised, loved!
An adopted son.
My son! Yours too!
Not mine.
Margaret sat beside 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, in every sense, not the man who knocked him out of the world.
Victor stayed silent.
Paul cried today. A grown man crying! Hes hurting, Victor.
Does it hurt me?
Yes. But he isnt to blame.
Neither am I.
Then what are you?
Just a man whose son isnt mine by blood.
Margaret stood.
Live with your tests. Were done without you.
That night Victor could not sleep. He replayed memories of Pauls childhood fevers, the bedtime stories, the pride at school dances, the university graduation. Could a sheet of paper erase all that?
A week passed. Victor went to work, returned home, ate in silence. Margaret tried conversation; he replied curtly. Paul stopped calling.
On Saturday Victor sat alone; Margaret was away at her sisters cottage. He thumbed through old photo albums: Paul in a pram, his first steps, a birthday cake at three, a school ceremony in a tiny suit, the graduation cap, the university podium. Each picture radiated genuine love.
Victor closed the album, tears finally breaking free.
That evening Paul called.
Dad, can I come over?
Come in.
Paul arrived half an hour later, weary.
How are you? Victor asked.
Honestly? Not great.
They sat in the quiet living room.
Dad, Ive figured something out. I dont care who my biological father is. To me, youre my dad. End of story.
Victor looked at his son.
Paul
Let me finish. Thirtyfive years youve been my father. Taught me, defended me, proud of me. Im proud of you. A test cant change that.
But Im not yours biologically.
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, there are blood parents and life parents. Youre my life parent, and that means more than any strand of DNA.
Victor shook his head.
I dont know what to do now
Just keep living. Were still a family.
Pauls voice cracked. It hurts, Dad. It hurts a lot.
I know. The pain will fade, but the family stays.
Paul stood. Tomorrows Sunday. Come over, Lenas making stew.
Im not sure
Please, Dad.
The next morning Victor lingered, dressing slowly while Margaret waited, silent. Finally he slipped on his coat.
Lets go.
At Pauls house the warmth was unchanged. Lena greeted him with a smile as if nothing had happened. They talked about work, holiday plans, everyday banter.
Victor watched Paul, the man whod called him dad for decades, sharing joys and worries, seeking advice, caring for him. Could biology outweigh that?
After lunch Paul saw them to the car.
Thanks for coming, Dad.
Thank you.
For what?
For being here. For putting up with me. For staying my son.
Paul embraced him.
What about me? Where will I go? Youre still my dad.
At home Margaret asked, How did it go?
Fine. Hes a good son.
A good son ours.
Margaret wept, relief flooding her.
Victor, Im sorry. I never meant to hurt you.
I know. And you, too. For everything, for the harshness.
So we keep going?
We do. No more secrets.
No more secrets.
Victor pulled Margaret close. Thirtyfive years ago fate handed him a sonnot by blood, but by love. That love proved stronger than any test.
Family isnt defined by DNA. Its the years lived side by side, the laughter and tears shared, the devotion that no laboratory can measure.
Paul remained his son, forever.
