Victor Baker shut his eyes. Thirtyfive years earlier, Eleanor lay in a hospital ward, pale and exhausted. The doctors called it a miracle that they both survived. He swore then that his son would be the happiest child on earth.
Dad, can you hear me? Pauls voice snapped him back to the present.
I hear you, lad. Just lost in thought, Victor replied.
They were seated in a coffee shop opposite Pauls office in Manchester. Paul ordered a flat white, Victor a tea with a slice of lemonSaturday ritual.
So, hows the project coming along? Victor asked.
Weve landed it! Threeyear contract, can finally think about a mortgage, Paul said, eyes bright.
Victor smiled. The boy had never let him down. Top of his class at school, a firstclass degree, steady promotion at work.
Hows Lucy? Victor pressed.
Everythings fine. She wants children, Im not ready yetworks a nightmare, Paul replied.
Dont linger, Paul. Time flies, Victor warned.
Paul glanced at his watch. Dad, Ive got a meeting in half an hour.
Go on then. See you tomorrow at Mums?
Absolutely.
Victor watched his son leave, tall, confident, his pride, his legacy.
At home, Eleanor was stirring a pot for dinner.
Hows Paul? she asked without turning from the stove.
He got the contract. Hes over the moon, Victor said.
Good lad, Eleanor replied.
Victor slipped his arm around her shoulders. Forty years togetherillness, money troubles, the death of their parentsbut the family had endured.
Eleanor, remember how we always talked about having kids?
I remember. You said wed have a son and name him Paul, Victor recalled.
And we did, Eleanor smiled.
She froze, a strange tension in her posture.
Whats wrong? Victor asked.
Nothing. The onions are making my eyes sting, she replied.
That evening, Victors cousin Michael rang. They hadnt spoken in ages.
Victor, hows it going? Michaels voice crackled.
Fine. You?
Retired now. Listen, I saw Paul in the city centre yesterday.
And?
Nothing special, just thought he doesnt look like you or Eleanor either.
Michael, what rubbish are you spouting?
Just a thought. By the way, do you recall the lad Eleanor dated back in the day? I think his name was David?
What David?
The one you two split up with for months. She was seeing someone else then.
A cold shiver ran down Victors spine.
Michael, what are you on about?
Never mind, its old news. The important thing is the familys solid, the sons a good lad.
After the call, Victor lingered in the kitchen while Eleanor slept. He tried to piece together the fragment of memory. They had indeed fought, the cause now blurred. Eleanor had spent months away with a friend in another townfour, maybe five months.
They reconciled. A year later Paul was born.
Victor booted up his laptop and stared at pictures of his son. The eyes, the nose, the heightnothing matched Eleanors, yet the cheekbones hinted at hers. He takes after his mother, they always said, but he didnt look much like her either.
He closed the laptop, trying to banish the intrusive thoughts. Michael loved gossip, and Paul was his flesh and blood, his pride.
Sleep eluded him.
The next day Victor couldnt focus at work. Michaels words echoed.
Eleanor, he said that evening, remember when we broke up in our youth?
She froze, a plate in her hand.
Whats the point of dredging up old wounds?
Just curious. Where were you living then?
At Sarahs flat in Brighton. Why?
Nothing. Michael called yesterday, we were reminiscing, Victor muttered.
Eleanor set down her plate and fled the kitchen, her movements odd.
A week later Victor could take it no longer. He booked a GP appointment under the pretense of a routine checkup.
Doctor, can I ask about a test? he asked.
Which one?
Well a paternity test. Purely theoretical.
The doctor chuckled. DNA test? Easy. Two weeks turnaround. Though Im curious why you need it at your age.
Just a friend asked, Victor replied.
At home he dug out Pauls old hairbrush, pulled a few strands, and added his own. He sent the sample to the lab three days later.
Two weeks stretched like two years. Eleanor 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 times, then four. Zero percent. Paul was not his son.
Victor shut the computer, sank onto the sofa, and felt a void. Thirtyfive years he had loved a child that wasnt his by blood, raised him, poured his soul and money into him. Eleanor had always known.
That night she came home, cheerful after work.
Victor, Paul called. He and Lucy are coming tomorrow. Ill make his favourite fish pie, she announced.
Victor, we need to talk, he said, his voice tightening.
What about?
Sit down, she said, placing her hands on her knees.
Im not Pauls father, Victor said, the words heavy.
Eleanors face went ashen.
What are you saying?
I have the test. It says zero percent, he replied.
She stared, then burst into tears.
Victor
Whos the father? Was it that David?
How do you know?
It doesnt matter how. Answer me.
It was ages ago we fought, we split
And you went to him?
Not right away. A month later, I was lonely, confused then I came back to you, with his child.
I didnt know! I swear I didnt! I thought he was yours!
Youre lying. Do you even know how to count?
Eleanor sniffed. I realised after he was born. What could I have done? Destroy the family?
So for thirtyfive years youve been lying to me.
I didnt lie! I kept quietfor us.
For yourself! Coward!
Victor stood, heading for the door.
Where are you going?
I dont know. I need to think.
Dont go! Lets talk!
He slammed the door shut.
Rain hammered the streets as Victor walked, wondering how he could ever look Paul in the eyes again, hug him, share his triumphs. A strangers child, the price of his wifes betrayal.
The next day Victor skipped work, stared out the window. Eleanor tried to speak at breakfast, but he answered oneworded. By noon she left for her sisters cottage.
At five p.m. Paul called.
Dad, well be there in an hour. Lucy bought a cake.
Dont come, Victor said.
What? Why?
Just no.
Are you ill?
No. Lets postpone.
Dad, whats happening? Mums acting strange too.
Victor hung up. Ten minutes later the phone rang again. Paul, then another call. He muted it.
An hour later there was a frantic knock.
Dad, open up! I know youre home!
Victor sat unmoving in his armchair.
Dad, whats wrong? Mums crying and wont explain!
The knocking grew louder, then fists pounded the door.
Open, or Ill break in!
Victor remembered Paul had a spare set of keys.
Im coming in! Victor shouted, rising.
He opened the door to find Paul, dishevelled and anxious.
Finally! Whats going on?
Come in, Victor said.
They sat in the living room, Pauls gaze searching.
Dad, explain something.
Youre not my son.
What?
Youre not my son. Not by blood.
Pauls eyes widened.
Youve lost it?
I did a DNA test. The result was zero.
What test? What are you talking about?
A paternity test. It shows Im not your father.
Paul sat in stunned silence, then whispered,
So what now?
I dont know.
So after thirtyfive years you raise me, then drop this on me? Thats it?
You dont understand
What dont I understand? That Mum was with someone else? And what of that?
What of it? She cheated on me!
You? Who cheated on you? Am I to blame?
Victor stared into Pauls eyes, seeing the hurt of a child left without a foundation.
Dad, be honest. Whats changed? Im still the same.
Everythings changed.
What? Im no longer your son? In a heartbeat?
You were never my son.
Paul stood, anger flaring.
So blood matters to you, not the years weve shared?
Dont simplify it.
How not to? You learn of a test and instantly reject me.
Im not rejecting
Youre rejecting! Yesterday I was your son, today Im not!
Paul marched to the door.
Where are you going?
Home. Sort out your own blood.
The door slammed. Victor was left alone.
Eleanor entered later, eyes red.
Where have you been?
At Sarahs. Lets talk properly, Victor.
What about?
Us. The family.
What family? You ruined it thirtyfive years ago.
I built it! I gave birth, raised, loved!
A strangers son.
My son! And yours too!
Not mine.
Eleanor 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, the real one, not the man who made him and vanished.
Victor stayed silent.
Paul cried today. A grown man crying. It hurts, Victor.
And it hurts me?
Yes. But hes not at fault.
Nothing. And Im nothing to him either.
Nothing? Hes your son!
Not my son.
Eleanor rose.
Then live with your test results. Were done without you.
That night Victor lay awake, recalling Pauls childhood fevers, the tears over shots, the bedtime stories Victor read. The pride at school, the graduation speech, the university defence. Could a piece of paper erase all that love?
A week passed. Victor went to work, returned home, ate in silence. Eleanor tried conversation; he answered curtly. Paul didnt call.
On Saturday Victor sat alone. Eleanor had gone to her sisters cottage. He flipped through old photo albums: Paul in a baby carriage, his first steps, a birthday cake at three, the school assembly in a little suit, the graduation cap, the university podium. Each picture pulsed with genuine love. Could DNA nullify that?
Victor closed the album and finally wept, the first tears in days.
That evening Paul called.
Dad, can I come over?
Come in, Victor replied.
Paul arrived half an hour later, tired.
How are you? Victor asked.
Fine. You?
Not great. Victor sighed.
They sat in silence a moment.
Dad, Ive realised something. I dont care who my biological father is. To me, youre my dad. End of story.
Victor stared at his son.
Paul
Let me finish. Youve been my father for thirtyfive yearstaught me, protected me, been proud of me. That test doesnt change it.
But Im not your
Father? Of course I am! Who drove me to the hospital when I broke my arm? Who went to parentteacher meetings? Who paid for my tuition?
Victor was speechless.
Dad, theres bloodrelated parents and there are parents by life. Youre my life parent. 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 know. It will pass. The family stays.
Paul stood.
Dad, tomorrows Sunday. Come over, Lucys making stew.
Im not sure
Please, come.
The next morning Victor lingered over his coat. Eleanor waited, quiet. Finally he slipped on his jacket.
Lets go, he said.
At Pauls house the warmth was unchanged. Lucy greeted them 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 burdens, seeking advice, offering care. Could biology outweigh that?
After lunch Paul saw them off.
Thanks for coming, Dad.
Thank you, Victor replied.
For what?
For being here. For putting up with me. For being my son.
Paul embraced him.
Where else will I go? Youre my dad.
Back home Eleanor asked, How was it?
Fine. Our sons a good lad.
Our? Victor smiled.
Yes, my son. Our son.
Eleanor wept with relief.
Victor, Im sorry. I never wanted to hurt you.
I know. And youre forgiven. For everything, for those harsh days.
So we keep going?
We do. No more secrets.
No more secrets.
Victor held his wife close. Thirtyfive years ago fate gave him a sonnot by blood, but by love. That proved more powerful than any test.
Family isnt DNA. Its the years lived together, the laughter and tears shared, the love that endures beyond laboratory results.
Paul remained his son, and always would.
