I never imagine the man I lovethe father of my childwill ever stare me straight in the eye and question whether our son is his. Yet here I sit on our beige sofa, cradling our little boy while James and his parents hurl accusations like sharp stones.
It all starts with a glance. When my motherinlaw Margaret first sees Oliver in the maternity ward, she furrows her brow. Whispering to James while I pretend to be asleep, she says, He doesnt look like a Bennett. I pretend not to hear, but her words cut deeper than the stitches from my caesarean.
At first James shrugs it off. We laugh about how babies change so much, how Oliver has my nose and Jamess chin. Still, that seed of doubt has been planted, and Margaret waters it with suspicion whenever she can.
You know, James had blue eyes as a baby, she remarks pointedly, holding Oliver up to the light. Isnt it odd that Olivers are so dark?
One evening, when Oliver is three months old, James comes home late from the office. I am on the sofa feeding the baby, hair unwashed, exhaustion hanging on me like a heavy coat. He doesnt even kiss me goodbye. He just stands there, arms crossed.
We need to talk, he says.
I already know whats coming.
Mom and Dad think its best if we do a DNA test. To clear the air.
To clear the air? I echo, my voice hoarse with disbelief. You think Ive been unfaithful?
James shifts uneasily. No, Blythe. Not at all. But theyre worried. I just want to settle thisfor everyone.
My heart drops. For everyone. Not for me. Not for Oliver. For them.
Fine, I reply after a long pause, holding back tears. You want a test? Youll get one. But I want something in return.
James frowns. What do you mean?
If I agree to this insult, then you agree to let me handle whatever happens if the results come back the way I know they will. And you promise, right now, in front of your parents, that anyone who still doubts me after this will be cut off.
James hesitates. Behind him, Margaret stiffens, arms crossed, eyes icy.
And if I refuse?
I meet his eyes, feeling Olivers gentle breaths against my chest. Then you can all leave. Dont come back.
The silence is thick. Margaret opens her mouth to argue, but James silences her with a glance. He knows Im not bluffing. He knows I never cheated. Oliver is his sonhis mirror image if only he looks past his mothers poison.
Fine, James says finally, running his hand through his hair. Well do the test. And if it proves what you say, thats it. No more accusations.
Margaret looks like shes swallowed a lemon. This is ridiculous, she hisses. If you have nothing to hide
Oh, I have nothing to hide, I snap. But you doyour hatred, your constant meddling. It ends once the test is done, or youll never see your son or grandson again.
James winces but doesnt argue.
Two days later the test is done. A nurse swabs Olivers tiny mouth while he whimpers in my arms. James does his, his face grim. That night I hold Oliver close, rocking him softly, whispering apologies he cant understand.
I barely sleep. James dozes on the sofa. I cant bear having him in our bed while he doubts meand our baby.
When the results arrive, James reads them first. He sinks to his knees before me, paper trembling in his hand. Blythe Im so sorry. I never should have
Dont apologise to me, I say coldly, picking Oliver up from his cot and settling him on my lap. Apologise to your son. And to yourself. Because youve lost something you can never get back.
But my battle isnt over. The test is only the beginning.
James kneels there, still clutching proof of what he should have always known. His eyes are red, but I feel nothingno warmth, no pity. Just cold emptiness where trust once lived.
Behind him, Margaret and my fatherinlaw Harold stand frozen. Margarets lips are so tight they are white. She doesnt dare meet my gaze. Good.
You promised, I say calmly, rocking Oliver, who gurgles happily, unaware of the family storm. You said that if the test cleared the air, youd cut out anyone still doubting me.
James swallows hard. Blythe, please. Shes my mother. She was just worried
Worried? I laugh sharply, making Oliver flinch. I kiss 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.
Margaret steps forward, voice trembling with righteous venom. Blythe, dont be dramatic. We did what any family would. We had to be sure
No, I interrupt. Normal families trust each other. Normal husbands dont make their wives prove their children are theirs. You wanted proof? You got it. Now youll get something else.
James looks at me, confused. Blythe, what do you mean?
I take a deep breath, feeling Olivers heartbeat against my chest. I want all of you gone. Now.
Margaret gasps. Harold sputters. Jamess eyes widen. What? Blythe, you cantthis is our house
No, I say firmly. This is Olivers house. Mine and his. And you three broke it. You doubted us, humiliated me. You will not raise my son in a home where his mother is called a liar.
James stands, anger rising as guilt vanishes. Blythe, be reasonable
I was reasonable, I snap. 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 stand, holding Oliver tighter. But Im done being reasonable. You want to stay here? Fine. But your parents leave. Today. Or you all leave.
Margarets voice shrills. James! Are you really letting her do this? Your own mother
James looks at me, then at Oliver, then at the floor. For the first time in years he looks like a lost boy in his own home. He turns to Margaret and Harold. Mom. Dad. Maybe you should go.
The silence cracks Margarets perfect mask. Her face twists with fury and disbelief. Harold places a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs it off.
This is your wifes doing, she hisses at James. Dont expect forgiveness.
She turns to me, eyes sharp as knives. Youll regret this. You think youve won, but youll regret it when he comes crawling back.
I smile. Goodbye, Margaret.
In minutes Harold grabs their coats, mumbling apologies James cant answer. Margaret leaves without looking back. When the door shuts, the house feels bigger, emptierbut lighter.
James sits on the edge of the sofa, staring at his hands. He looks up at me, voice barely a whisper. Blythe Im sorry. I shouldve stood up for youfor us.
I nod. Yes. You shouldve.
He reaches for my hand. I let him take it for a momentjust a momentthen pull away. James, I dont know if I can forgive you. This has broken my trust in them and in you.
Tears fill his eyes. Tell me what to do. Ill do anything.
I look down at Oliver, who yawns and curls 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?
James nods, shoulders slumping. I understand.
In the weeks that follow, things change. Margaret calls, begs, threatensI dont answer. James doesnt either. He comes home early every night, takes Oliver for walks so I can rest, cooks dinner. He looks at our son like hes seeing him for the first timebecause, in a way, he is.
Rebuilding trust isnt easy. Some nights I lie awake wondering if Ill ever see James the same way. But every morning, when I watch him feeding Oliver breakfast, making him laugh, I think maybejust maybewell be okay.
Were not perfect. But were ours. And thats enough.
