I never imagined the man I lovedmy husband and the father of my childwould stare me dead in the eye and question whether our son was truly his. Yet there I was, perched on the faded grey sofa of our Camden flat, cradling our tiny boy while Mark and his parents hurled accusations that glittered like shards of glass.
It all started with a single glance. When my motherinlaw, Patricia, first laid eyes on Oliver in the maternity ward, she knitted her brows. Whispering to Mark while I pretended to be halfasleep, she murmured, He doesnt look like a Hartley. I pretended not to hear, but her words sliced deeper than any postoperative stitch.
Mark brushed it off at first. We laughed about how babies change, how Oliver had my eyes and his chin. Yet the seed of doubt had been planted, and Patricia watered it with suspicion whenever she could.
You know, Mark had the bluest eyes as an infant, shed say, holding Oliver up to the harsh fluorescent light. Isnt it strange his eyes are so dark now?
One evening, when Oliver was three months old, Mark trudged home late from the office. I was on the sofa feeding him, my hair unwashed, exhaustion hanging over me like a damp coat. He didnt even plant a kiss on my cheek. He just stood there, arms crossed, as if the air itself were a barrier.
We need to talk, he said.
I already knew the shape of the words that would follow.
Mom and Dad think it would be best to do a DNA test. To clear the air.
To clear the air? I echoed, my voice hoarse with disbelief. You think Ive been unfaithful?
Mark shifted, uneasy. No, Blythe. Not at all. But theyre worried. I just want to settle thisfor everyone.
My heart sank. For everyone. Not for me. Not for Oliver. For them.
Fine, I said after a long pause, fighting back tears. If you want a test, youll have one. But I want something in return.
Mark frowned. What do you mean?
If I agree to this insult, then you agree that, should the results confirm what I already know, youll let me handle the aftermath my way. And youll promise, here, in front of your parents, that anyone who still doubts me will be cut off forever.
Mark hesitated. Patricias arms stiffened, her gaze icy.
And if I refuse?
I met his eyes, feeling Olivers soft breaths against my chest. Then you can all leave. Dont come back.
Silence thickened. Patricia opened her mouth to argue, but Mark silenced her with a single glance. He knew I wasnt bluffing. He knew I had never strayed. Oliver was his sonhis mirror, if only he could see past his mothers poison.
Fine, Mark said finally, running a hand through his hair. Well do the test. And if it proves what you say, thats that. No more accusations.
Patricias face twisted like shed swallowed a lemon. This is absurd, she hissed. If you have nothing to hide
Oh, I have nothing to hide, I snapped. But you doyour hatred, your meddling. It ends once the test is done, or youll never see your son or grandson again.
Mark winced but said nothing.
Two days later the swab was taken. A nurse brushed a cotton bud along Olivers tiny mouth while he whimpered in my arms. Mark gave his sample, his face a mask of grim resolve. That night I rocked Oliver gently, whispering apologies he could not understand.
Sleep eluded me. Mark dozed on the sofa, a hollow figure I could not bear to share a bed with while he doubted meand our baby.
When the results arrived, Mark read them first. He fell to his knees before me, paper trembling in his hand. Blythe Im so sorry. I never should have
Dont apologise to me, I said coldly, lifting Oliver from his cot onto my lap. Apologise to your son. And to yourself. Because youve lost something you can never get back.
But the battle was far from over.
Mark knelt there, clutching the proof of what he should have always known. His eyes were red, yet I felt nothingno warmth, no pity. Only a cold void where trust once lived.
Behind him, Patricia and my fatherinlaw, Gerald, stood frozen. Patricias lips were so tight they seemed white. She dared not meet my gaze. Good.
You promised, I said calmly, rocking Oliver, who gurgled happily, oblivious to the storm. You said that if the test cleared the air, youd cut out anyone still doubting me.
Mark swallowed hard. Blythe, please. Shes my mother. She was just worried
Worried? I laughed sharply, making Oliver flinch. I brushed his soft hair. She poisoned you against your own wife and son. Called me a liar and a cheatall because she cant stand not controlling your life.
Patricia stepped forward, voice trembling with righteous venom. Blythe, dont be dramatic. We did what any family would. We had to be sure
No, I interjected. Normal families trust each other. Normal husbands dont make their wives prove their children are theirs. You wanted proof? You have it. Now youll get something else.
Mark stared, confused. Blythe, what do you mean?
I inhaled deeply, feeling Olivers heartbeat against my chest. I want all of you gone. Now.
Patricia gasped. Gerald sputtered. Marks eyes widened. What? Blythe, you cantthis is our home
No, I said firmly. This is Olivers home. Mine and his. And you three broke it. You doubted us, humiliated me. You will not raise my son in a house where his mother is called a liar.
Mark rose, anger flaring as guilt evaporated. Blythe, be reasonable
I was reasonable, I snapped. When I agreed to that disgusting test. When I bit my tongue as your mother made digs about my hair, my cooking, my family. I was reasonable letting her into our lives at all.
I held Oliver tighter. But Im done being reasonable. You want to stay here? Fine. But your parents leave. Today. Or you all leave.
Patricias voice shrilled. Mark! Are you really letting her do this? Your own mother
Mark looked at me, then at Oliver, then at the floor. For the first time in years he seemed a lost boy in his own house. He turned to Patricia and Gerald. Mom. Dad. Maybe you should go.
The silence cracked Patricias perfect mask. Fury and disbelief warped her face. Gerald placed a hand on her shoulder, but she brushed it aside.
This is your wifes doing, she hissed at Mark. Dont expect forgiveness.
She turned to me, eyes sharp as knives. Youll regret this. You think youve won, but youll regret it when he comes crawling back.
I smiled. Goodbye, Patricia.
In minutes Gerald gathered their coats, mumbling apologies Mark could not answer. Patricia slipped out without looking back. When the door shut, the flat felt larger, emptierbut lighter.
Mark sank onto the edge of the sofa, staring at his hands. He looked up at me, voice barely a whisper. Blythe Im sorry. I shouldve stood up for youfor us.
I nodded. Yes. You shouldve.
He reached for my hand. I let him hold it for a momentjust a momentthen pulled away. Mark, I dont know if I can forgive you. This has shattered my trust in you and in them.
Tears filled his eyes. Tell me what to do. Ill do anything.
I glanced down at Oliver, who yawned and curled his tiny fingers around my sweater. Start by earning it back. Be the father he deserves. Be the husband I deserveif you want that chance. And if you ever let them near me or Oliver again without my permission, you wont see us again. Understand?
Mark nodded, shoulders slumping. I understand.
In the weeks that followed, things shifted. Patricia called, begged, threatenedI didnt answer. Mark didnt either. He came home early each night, took Oliver for walks so I could rest, cooked dinner, and looked at our son as if seeing him for the first timebecause, in a way, he was.
Rebuilding trust isnt easy. Some nights I lie awake wondering if Ill ever see Mark the same way again. But every morning, when I watch him feed Oliver breakfast and coax a laugh from him, I think maybejust maybewell be okay.
Were not perfect. But were ours. And thats enough.
