I looked from the boy to the paper, my hands shaking. The name at the top of the paternity test wasn’t my daughter’s, obviously. It belonged to my nephew—the one I’d just written into my will as my sole beneficiary. The result read: 99.99% Probability of Paternity.
My daughter leaned against the car, that smug glow getting brighter. “Meet Caleb,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet venom. “He’s [Nephew]’s son. Remember that girl he dated in college? The one who ‘went crazy’ and moved away? Yeah, turns out he ghosted her when she told him she was pregnant. I tracked her down last month.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. I looked at the little boy again; he had my father’s chin and my nephew’s eyes. Unmistakable.
“You were so obsessed with legacy, Mom,” she continued, crossing her arms. “You cut me out because I wouldn’t give you a grandkid, and you gave everything to the ‘Golden Boy’ instead because you thought he was the future of this family. Well, turns out your Golden Boy is a deadbeat dad who’s been hiding his own flesh and blood for five years to protect his reputation.”
She snatched the envelope back out of my hand and tossed it onto the passenger seat next to the confused little boy.
“I’m still not having kids, Mom. That hasn’t changed. But since you’re so desperate to support [Nephew]’s bloodline, I figured you should know exactly who you’re funding. I’m helping Caleb’s mom sue for back child support. I just thought you’d want to know that your ‘perfect heir’ isn’t who you think he is.”
Before I could even find my voice to apologize or explain, she slammed the car door shut, got in the driver’s side, and peeled out of the driveway. She left me standing there on the pavement in stunned silence, realizing I had destroyed my relationship with my honest daughter to bankroll a liar. I called my lawyer five minutes later.
