The nursery walls were painted a soft, hopeful yellow. A white crib stood beneath the window—the same crib Emma and I had built together three months before our son arrived. I could still hear her laughing when I struggled with the instructions, still see the way she finally took over, finishing it effortlessly while I handed her screws and pretended to be offended. Back then, I’d believed that was happiness.

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Now I stood in that room, staring at our two-week-old baby sleeping peacefully, and felt something colder than doubt settle into my bones.

“Marcus?” Emma’s voice came from the doorway. She looked exhausted, shadows under her eyes from sleepless nights. “You’ve barely spoken to me all week. What’s going on?”

I turned toward her, the paternity test kit heavy in my hands.

“I need you to take this,” I said.

She frowned. “What is that?”

“A paternity test.” My voice didn’t sound like mine. “I need to know if he’s mine.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Our son stirred slightly in the crib. The hallway clock ticked. Emma’s face changed in slow motion—confusion, then hurt, then disbelief. Finally, something like resignation.

“And if he isn’t yours?” she asked quietly.

“Then I file for divorce,” I said. “I won’t raise another man’s child.”

She nodded once. “If that’s what you need.”

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