Victor closed his eyes. Thirtyfive years ago, Margaret lay in a hospital ward, pale and exhausted. The doctors called it a miracle that both survived. He swore then that the boy 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 drifting off in thought.
They sat in a little tearoom opposite Paul’s office on Fleet Street. Paul ordered a cappuccino; Victor a tea with lemonSaturday ritual.
So, whats the project? Victor asked.
We landed it! A threeyear contract, can finally think about a mortgage.
Victor smiled. Paul had never let him down. Top of his class at school, a firstclass degree, a swift rise at work.
Hows Eleanor? Victor asked.
Everythings fine. She wants kids, Im not ready yet. Too much work.
Dont linger, Paul. Time flies.
Paul nodded, checked his watch.
Dad, Ive got to go. Meeting in half an hour.
Run along. See you tomorrow at Margarets?
Definitely.
Victor watched his son leave, tall, lean, selfassuredhis pride, his continuation.
At home Margaret was preparing dinner.
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, through illness, money worries, parents deaths. The family had endured.
Margaret, remember how we dreamed of children?
Like it was yesterday. You saida son, well call him Paul.
And we chose the right name.
Margaret froze, a strange tension in her posture.
Whats wrong? Victor asked.
Nothing. This onion makes my eyes sting.
That evening Michael, Victors cousin, called after a long silence.
Victor, hows it going?
Fine. You?
Retired now. Yesterday I saw Paul in the city centre.
And?
Nothing special. Just thoughthes not like you at all. Neither is Margaret.
Michael, what are you on about?
Just a thought. By the way, do you recall Margarets old flame what was his name Daniel?
What Daniel?
The one you argued with, split for six months. She was seeing someone else then.
A cold shiver ran down Victors spine.
What are you saying?
Just forget it. It was ages ago. The point isfamily is solid, the boy is good.
After the call Victor lingered in the kitchen, Margaret already asleep, replaying that distant quarrel. They had argued, he couldnt remember why. Margaret had gone to a friends house in another town for fourmaybe five months. They reconciled, and a year later Paul was born.
Victor turned on the computer, scrolling through photos of his son. No resemblance in eyes, nose, heightalways shes the mothers side. Yet he also didnt look much like Margaret.
He shut the laptop, trying to banish the intrusive thoughts. Michael loved gossip; Paul was his son, his blood, his pride. Yet the dream would not lift.
The next day Victor couldnt focus at work. Michaels words echoed.
Margaret, he said at dinner, do you remember when we split up years ago?
Margaret paused, plate in hand.
Why dredge up the past?
Just curious. Where did you live then?
At Sallys place in Cambridge. Why?
Nothing. Michael called, we were reminiscing.
Margaret set the plate down and hurried out of the kitchen, moving oddly.
A week later Victor could bear it no longer. He booked a GP appointment under the guise of a routine checkup.
Doctor, could I ask about a test?
Which one?
Just paternity, theoretically.
The doctor smiled. DNA test, simple. Two weeks and youll have results. Why at our age?
Just a friends curiosity.
At home Victor found an old hairbrush belonging to Paul, plucked a few strands, and mixed them with his own. He sent the sample to the lab.
Two weeks stretched like two years. Margaret asked several times what was occupying him; he waved it off as work stress.
The result arrived Thursday morning, an email that made his hands tremble.
Probability of paternity: 0%
He read it three, four times. Zero percent. Paul was not his son.
Victor shut the computer, sank onto the sofa. A void yawned where thirtyfive years of love, pride, and sacrifice had lived. Margaret had known all along.
That evening she returned from work, cheerful.
Victor, Paul called. He and Eleanor will be here tomorrow. Ill make your favourite shepherds pie.
Margaret, we need to talk, Victor said, his voice tightening.
What about?
Sit down.
She sat opposite him, hands folded.
Paul isnt my son.
Margarets face went ashen.
What are you saying?
I have the test.
The test?
The DNA. Zero percent, Margaret. Zero.
She was silent for a heartbeat, then wept.
Victor?
Whos the father? Daniel?
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 immediately. A month later, lonely and confused
Then you returned to me with his child.
I didnt know! I swear I didnt! I thought it was yours!
Youre lying. Can you count?
Margaret hiccupped. I realised after he was born. What could I have done? Destroy the family?
So youve been deceiving me for thirtyfive years.
Not deceivingsilent. For all of us.
Silent for yourself! Coward!
Victor rose, heading for the door.
Where are you going?
I dont know. Need to think.
Dont go! Lets talk!
He slammed the door. Rain hammered the streets as he walked, pondering how to look Paul in the eye now, how to hug him, how to celebrate his triumphs. A strangers child, the consequence of his wifes betrayal.
Tomorrow they would arrive, smiling, sharing news, and he would have to pretend nothing had changed. Yet everything had.
Victor skipped work the next day, staring out the window. Margaret tried to speak in the morning, but he answered with monosyllables. At noon she left for her sisters cottage.
At five Paul called.
Dad, well be there in an hour. Eleanor bought a cake.
Dont come.
What? Why?
Just not today.
Are you ill?
No. Lets postpone.
Dad, whats happening? Mum sounds strange too.
Victor hung up. Ten minutes later the phone rang again. Paul called, then again. Victor muted it.
An hour later there was a frantic knock.
Dad, open up! I know youre home!
Victor sat still, unmoving.
Dad, whats wrong? Mum is crying, saying nothing!
The knocking turned into pounding.
Open the door or Ill break in!
Paul had a spare keyVictor remembered that.
Dad, Im coming in!
Victor got up, opened the door. Paul stood, dishevelled and anxious.
Finally! Whats going on?
Come in.
They sat in the living room. Paul stared, bewildered.
Dad, explain something.
Youre not my son.
What?
Youre not my son. A stranger.
Pauls eyes widened.
Youre crazy?
I did a test. DNA. Result was zero.
What test? What are you talking about?
Paternity. Im not your father.
Paul was silent for a moment, then whispered, And now?
I dont know.
So after thirtyfive years you raised me, and now you bring this up? Thats the end?
You dont understand
What dont I understand? That Mum was with someone else? So what?
How so? She deceived me!
Who deceived you? Whos to blame? Am I at fault?
Victor looked into Pauls eyes and saw the hurt of a child.
Dad, be honest. Whats changed? Im still me.
Everythings changed.
What? Im no longer your son? In a heartbeat?
You never were.
Paul stood abruptly.
So blood matters more to you than the years we lived?
Its not that simple.
How isnt it? You learned of the test and immediately disowned me.
Im not disowning
You are! Yesterday I was your son, today Im not!
Paul moved toward the door.
Where are you going?
Home. You sort out your blood.
The door slammed. Victor was left alone.
Margaret came home later.
Where have you been?
At Tams. Thought we could talk properly.
What about?
Our family.
What family? You broke it thirtyfive years ago.
I built it! I gave birth, raised, loved!
A strangers son.
My son! And yours too!
Not mine.
Margaret 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, truly, not the man who made him and vanished.
Victor was silent.
Paul cried today. A grown man crying. Hes hurting, Victor.
Do I hurt?
Yes. I understand. But whats his fault?
None. Yet Im no one to him.
How can you be no one? Hes your son!
Not a son.
Margaret stood.
Then live with your tests. Were out.
That night Victor couldnt sleep. He recalled Pauls childhood fevers, the cries at injections, the bedtime stories Victor read. He remembered school pride, the graduation, the university speech.
Was it all for nothing?
A week passed. Victor went to work, came home, ate in silence. Margaret tried to converse; he answered briefly. Paul stopped calling.
On Saturday Victor sat alone. Margaret had gone to her sisters cottage. He leafed through old photo albums: Paul in a pram, first steps, a birthday cake at three, a school assembly in a little suit, the graduation, the university defence. Each picture radiated love, genuine, alive. Could a DNA report erase that?
Victor closed the album and wept, his first tears in days.
That evening Paul called.
Dad, can I come over?
Come in.
Paul arrived half an hour later, looking exhausted.
How are you? Victor asked.
Honestly, not great.
They sat in the living room, silence stretching.
Dad, I realized something. I dont care who my biological father is. To me youre Dad. Thats final.
Victor looked at him.
Paul
Thirtyfive years you were my father. You taught me, defended me, Im proud of you. No test can change that.
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 mute.
Dad, there are blood parents and life parents. Youre my life parent. That matters more than any strand of DNA.
I dont know what to do now
Dont. Keep living. Were still family.
Paul stood.
Dad, tomorrow is Sunday. Come over with Mom. Eleanors making bangers and mash.
Im not sure
Please, come.
The next morning Victor took ages to get ready. Margaret waited, silent. Finally he slipped on his coat.
Lets go.
At Pauls house the warmth was the same as always. Eleanor greeted him cheerfully, as if nothing had shifted. They talked about work, holiday plans, ordinary family chatter.
Victor watched Paul, remembering the thirtyfive years of being called dad, sharing joys and worries, seeking advice. Was biology any more important than this?
After lunch Paul saw them to the car.
Dad, thanks for coming.
Thank you.
For what?
For being here. For putting up with me. For staying my son.
Paul hugged him.
Where will I go? Youre still my dad.
At home Margaret asked, How was it?
Fine. Our sons fine.
Our?
Yes, my son. Our son.
Margaret wept with relief.
Victor, Im sorry. I never meant to hurt you.
I know. And youre forgiven. For all those days. For the harshness.
So we keep living?
We will. No more secrets.
No secrets.
Victor embraced his wife. Thirtyfive years ago fate gave him a sonnot by blood, but by love. That proved stronger than any test.
Family isnt DNA. Its years lived together, shared laughter and sorrow, love that outlives any laboratory result.
Paul remained his son, now and forever.
