Brook
The email notification popped up on my phone at 2:47 PM. I was sitting at Lake's
kitchen table, watching her make tea I wouldn't drink because the smell made me
nauseous these days. Sofia had been kicking all morning, like she could sense my
anxiety. DNA Test Results - CONFIDENTIAL My hand froze halfway to my water
glass. "Brook?" Lake turned from the stove, kettle in hand. "What is it?" I couldn't
speak. Couldn't move. Just stared at those words on the screen. I'd known. Of
course I'd known what the results would say. Preston was Tyson's son. There had
never been any doubt, not for me. But seeing it there, official and clinical and real
— How could Tyson think that I would name our son after our brother’s, Caleb
Preston and River Sawyer, if he belonged to someone else? My fingers trembled as I
opened the email. The PDF loaded slowly, each second stretching into eternity.
Probability of Paternity: 99.9999% Tyson James Powell cannot be excluded as the
biological father of Preston Sawyer Powell. The words blurred. I blinked hard,
trying to focus, but tears were already spilling down my cheeks. Not sad tears. Not
relieved tears. Angry ones. "Brook?" Lake was beside me now, her hand on my
shoulder. "Is it—" I turned the phone toward her, unable to form words.
She read it quickly, her face going through a rapid succession of emotions—relief,
vindication, and then pure, blazing fury. "That son of a bitch." "He thought—" My
voice cracked. "He actually thought I would—" "I know." Lake pulled me into her
arms as best she could with my belly between us. "I know, honey." The sobs came
then, ugly and harsh. My whole body shook with them. Lake held me tighter, and I
could feel her crying too, her tears hot against my hair. "Seven years," I choked out.
"I gave him seven years. I've never even looked at another man. And he believed
her. He believed Celeste over me." "He's an idiot," Lake said fiercely. "A complete
and total idiot." "I told him." I pulled back, wiping my face with shaking hands. "I
told him Preston was his. I begged him to believe me, and he walked out anyway."
Lake's jaw was tight, her eyes still wet. "What are you going to do?" I looked down
at my phone. Below the email notification were seventeen missed calls. Twelve text
messages. All from Tyson. Please, Brook. Please just talk to me. I'm so sorry. God,
I'm so sorry. I know I don't deserve it but please. Please. I love you. I love Preston. I
love Sofia. Please. Each message was a knife between my ribs. Because part of
me—the part that had loved him since I was sixteen, the part that had built a life
with him—wanted to call him back. Wanted to hear his voice. Wanted him to tell me
it would be okay.
But it wouldn't be okay. He'd broken something fundamental between us. "You're
not calling him back," Lake said. It wasn't a question. "I don't know." The admission
felt like failure . "Brook—" "I don't know!" I stood up too fast, had to grab the table
as dizziness washed over me. Sofia kicked hard, like she was protesting too. "I don't
know what to do, Lake. I'm exhausted. I'm seven months pregnant. My son ke eps
asking where his daddy is and I don't know what to tell him. And I—" I pressed my
hands to my face, trying to hold myself together. "Part of me wants to make him
suffer," I whispered. " Wants to let him grovel and beg and feel even a fraction of
what I felt when he walked out that door. When he looked at me like I was a
stranger. Like I was someone who could betray him." "He deserves to suffer," Lake
said quietly. "I know." I dropped my hands, looked at my sister. "But part of me just
wants him to come home. Wants him to hold me and tell me he's sorry and that we'll
figure it out. I want to wake up and have this all be a nightmare. I want my husband
back." My voice broke on the last word. Lake's expression softened. "Oh, honey."
"I'm so tired," I admitted. "I'm so tired of being angry. Of being hurt. Of sle eping
alone and explaining to Preston why Daddy isn't here. I just want—" I couldn't
finish.
Lake pulled me back into her arms, gentler this time. "You don't have to decide
anything right now." But I did. Or at least, I had to decide something. That night,
after Lake had gone home and Preston was finally asle ep, I sat at the kitchen table
with the envelope Patricia had sent over. The divorce papers inside felt heavier
than they should. I hadn't opened them yet. Hadn't even broken the seal. My hand
rested on my belly, feeling Sofia's movements. She was active tonight, rolling and
stretching. In two months, she'd be here. A whole new person who deserved
parents who loved each other. Who trusted each other. Could we ever get that
back? I thought about growing up. My parents had fought sometimes, but there had
always been this foundation of absolute trust. I'd never once doubted that they
were solid. That they were forever. I'd wanted that for my kids. Thought I had it.
Now I didn't know what I had. If I signed these papers, Sofia would grow up with
divorced parents. Weekends with Daddy, holidays split between houses. She'd
never know what it was like to have both parents under one roof, to feel that
security. But if I didn't sign them—if I let Tyson come back—would she grow up in a
house where trust had been shattered? Where her mother looked at her father and
remembered the day he chose to believe the worst of her? Which was worse? I
pulled the envelope closer, then pushed it away. Pulled it back.
My phone buzzed. Another message from Tyson. The results came in. I know you
got them too. Brook, please. I'm begging you. Let me explain. Let me apologize. Let
me spend the rest of my life making this up to you. I stared at the words until they
blurred. I didn't know what I wanted anymore. Justice? Revenge? My husband
back? All of it? None of it? Sofia kicked again, hard enough to make me wince. I
rubbed the spot, tears sliding down my cheeks. "I don't know what to do," I
whispered to her. "I don't know how to fix this." The envelope sat on the table,
unopened. Tyson's message glowed on my phone screen. And I sat there in the
dark, seven months pregnant and completely alone, with no idea which choice
would hurt less.