Tyson
Asher's guest room smelled like fabric softener. I'd been here four days, and I still
hadn't unpacked my duffel bag. What was the point? I wasn't staying. I couldn't
stay. I had to fix this. I just didn't know how. The mirror in the attached bathroom
showed a stranger—holloweyed, unshaven, hair sticking up in directions that defied
physics. I looked like I'd aged a decade in less than a week. Good. I deserved to look
as shitty as I felt. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark but somehow still
accusatory. I'd picked it up a hundred times in the last hour alone, scrolling through
photos I'd taken of Brook and Preston. There was one from two weeks ago—Brook
laughing at something Preston had said, her hand on her belly, the late afternoon
sun making her glow. She'd been so beautiful. She was always beautiful, but
pregnant? God, she was radiant. And I'd walked away from her. I'd looked at
her—seven months pregnant with our daughter, standing in our kitchen with our
son clinging to her leg—and I'd believed the worst of her. My stomach churned. I
couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten a full meal. Asher k ept trying, leaving
plates outside the door like I was some kind of feral animal he was trying to coax
out. I'd managed a few bites here and there, enough to ke ep from passing out, but
everything tasted like ash. Sle ep was worse. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw
Preston's face when I'd walked out. The confusion. The fear. The way he'd reached
for me and I'd just... left.
"Daddy, where you going?" I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes until I
saw stars. It didn't help. Nothing helped. The notebook on the desk was filled with
letters I'd written to Brook. Pages and pages of apologies, explanations, pleas. None
of them were good enough. None of them could possibly convey the d epth of my
regret, the magnitude of my fuck-up. Dear Brook, I know I don't deserve your
forgiveness, but... Brook, I can't begin to tell you how sorry... To my wife, the
mother of my children, the love of my life—I destroyed everything and I don't know
how to... I'd sent none of them. What could words on paper do? What could any
words do against the damage I'd caused? My phone buzzed, and I lunged for it with
pathetic desperation. But it wasn't Brook. It was just a notification email. Your DNA
test results are ready for download. Everything stopped. My heart, my breath, the
entire fucking world. This was it. The real results. The truth I should have trusted
from the beginning. My hands shook so badly I almost dropped the phone. Twice I
had to re-enter my password because my fingers wouldn't cooperate. The email
loaded with agonizing slowness, and I clicked the link to download the PDF. The file
opened. Alleged Father: Tyson James Powell Child: Preston Sawyer Powell
Probability of Paternity: 99.9999%
The numbers blurred as tears filled my eyes. Preston was mine. Of course he was
mine. He'd always been mine. Every smile, every laugh, every "Daddy, watch this!"
Every bedtime story and scraped knee and tight hug. Mine. Ours. And I'd doubted
it. I'd doubted her . A sound ripped from my throat—half-sob, half-roar. Relief and
horror crashed over me in equal measure. Relief that my son was my son, that the
fundamental truth of our family was intact. Horror at what I'd done with that truth.
How I'd taken it and shattered it against the rocks of my own stupidity. I'd believed
Celeste. My eighteen-year-old sister who'd hated Brook from day one, who'd been
awful to her for years, who'd shown up with a convenient DNA test right when she
needed money. And I'd believed her over my wife. My wife who'd never given me a
single reason to doubt her. Who'd loved me faithfully for seven years. Who was
carrying our daughter. "Oh God," I whispered. "Oh God, what did I do?" My fingers
moved on autopilot, forwarding the results to Brook's email. I typed a message,
deleted it, typed another, deleted that too. Nothing was right. Nothing could be
right. Finally, I settled on: I'm so sorry. I'll spend the rest of my life proving how
sorry I am. Preston is my son. He was always my son. Please give me a chance to fix
this. I hit send before I could second-guess it again. Then I waited. One minute. Five
minutes. Ten. My phone stayed silent.
I sent a text: Did you get the results? Brook, please. I know I don't deserve a
response but please just let me know you saw them. Nothing. Another text: I was
wrong. I was so fucking wrong. Please let me come home. Let me see Preston. Let
me apologize in person. The messages showed as delivered but not read. I called. It
rang four times and went to voicemail. Her voice on the recording—bright and
happy, recorded months ago when everything was still good—felt like a knife to the
chest. Me : Brook, it's me. I know you probably don't want to hear from me, but
please. Please call me back. I got the results. Preston is mine. He was always mine
and I'm so sorry I ever doubted that. I'm sorry I doubted you. I'm sorry I walked out.
I'm sorry for everything. Just... please. Please give me a chance. I called again.
Voicemail. Again. Voicemail. On the fourth call, it went straight to voicemail. She'd
turned off her phone. Or blocked me. The phone slipped from my hand and hit the
carpet with a muffled thud. I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor,
knees pulled up, head in my hands. She wasn't going to respond. Why would she?
I'd accused her of the worst betrayal possible. I'd walked out on her and our son. I'd
chosen my sister's lies over five years of marriage, of love, of building a life
together. And now I had proof that I'd been wrong, and it changed nothing. The
damage was done.
I'd broken us. Maybe beyond r epair. The sobs came then, wrenching and ugly, the
kind that left you gasping for air. I cried for what I'd lost, what I'd thrown away,
what I might never get back. I cried for Preston's confused face and Brook's
devastated eyes and the daughter I might not get to bring home from the hospital. I
cried because I'd had everything, and I'd destroyed it with my own hands. And
Brook—my strong, fierce, beautiful Brook—wasn't going to make this easy. I didn't
deserve easy . I didn't deserve anything. But I'd spend the rest of my life trying to
earn my way back anyway. Even if it took forever. Even if she never forgave me.
She was worth it. They were worth it. I just hoped I'd get the chance to prove it.