Chapter 4 - THE PATERNITY TEST
The test came back four days later.
99.9998 percent probability of paternity.
Ethan Blackwood was Noah’s father.
I expected him to celebrate.
Instead he sat in Richard’s library staring at the report for almost ten minutes.
“Six years.”
I said nothing.
“First steps.”
Yes.
“First words.”
Yes.
“Birthdays.”
Yes.
He covered his face.
I felt sympathy.
That surprised me.
Then anger at myself for feeling it.
But grief is not a courtroom.
His pain did not erase mine.
Mine did not cancel his.
Finally he asked:
“What was his first word?”
I almost refused.
Then remembered Noah.
This was not information to weaponize.
“Ball.”
Ethan laughed weakly.
“Not Mama?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I glared.
He smiled for half a second.
The old Ethan.
Then:
“When did he walk?”
“Thirteen months.”
“Was he sick often?”
“No.”
“Favorite food?”
“Macaroni.”
“Favorite color?”
“Green.”
“Why dinosaurs?”
“Because Aunt Jenny gave him a plastic T. rex when he was two.”
He wrote everything down.
That nearly broke me.
Not because it was romantic.
Because seven years earlier, I had wanted exactly this.
A man asking questions about our child.
Only now we were strangers.
Then Ethan said:
“I want custody.”
The warmth vanished instantly.
He saw my expression.
“No. That came out wrong.”
“Yes.”
“I want to be his father.”
“Those are not the same sentence.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He stood.
“Claire, I missed six years.”
“And Noah has known you four days.”
“I’m not asking to take him from you.”
“Good.”
“I’m asking for a path.”
That was different.
I looked at Richard.
He remained silent.
Smart man.
I turned back to Ethan.
“Therapist.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Family therapist specializing in reunification and late-discovered parentage.”
“Okay.”
“No overnight visits.”
“Okay.”
“You do not introduce him to media, employees, boards, Blackwood events, or anyone as your heir.”
His face tightened slightly at the word.
“Agreed.”
“You do not buy his affection.”
“I can buy him things.”
“Birthday presents. Normal things.”
“What is normal?”
For Ethan Blackwood, that was a legitimate question.
I sighed.
“We’ll define it.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Do I get to talk to you?”
“You are talking to me.”
“You know what I mean.”
Yes.
I did.
“No.”
His face changed.
“Our parenting relationship can develop.”
“And us?”
“There is no us.”
That hurt him.
Good.
Then I hated myself for thinking that too.
I softened.
“Ethan, seven years happened.”
“I know.”
“You were lied to.”
“Yes.”
“So was I.”
“Yes.”
“But you also just humiliated me and Noah in a restaurant without knowing why we were there.”
He looked down.
“That was me.”
“Yes.”
Not Eleanor.
Not Charles.
Not seven-year-old evidence.
Him.
He had seen a woman he once loved sitting at his family’s table with a child and chose cruelty before curiosity.
That mattered.
Ethan nodded slowly.
“I understand.”
May you like
“I hope you eventually do.”
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