Tyson
The drive home from the construction site always felt longer on Fridays, but today I
couldn't stop grinning. My crew had finished the Morrison project two days ahead
of schedule, which meant a bonus I was already planning to put toward the nursery.
Sofia's room still needed a new rocking chair, and Brook had been eyeing that
expensive one with the ottoman. I pulled into the driveway, noting Brook's SUV
parked in its usual spot. The house looked perfect in the late afternoon light—the
pale blue siding we'd r epainted last summer, the flower beds Brook had insisted on
even though she could barely bend over to tend them anymore. Home. Everything
I'd ever wanted. "Daddy!" Preston's shriek of delight hit me the second I opened the
door. He came barreling across the living room, a toy truck clutched in each fist,
and I scooped him up despite the ache in my shoulders from ten hours of manual
labor. "Hey, buddy! What've you been up to?" "Big accident! Mama said the
ambulance came but then the fire truck had to help too because—" "Because
everything's an emergency when you're four," Brook said, appearing from the
kitchen. She looked tired, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun, one hand
supporting her lower back. But she was smiling, and God, she was beautiful. Seven
months pregnant and still the most gorgeous woman I'd ever seen. I set Preston
down and crossed to her, pulling her into my arms as carefully as her belly would
allow. "Hey, beautiful." She tilted her face up for a kiss, and I obliged, tasting the
sweetness of whatever she'd been snacking on. "Hey yourself. Good day?"
"Great day. Finished Morrison early." I k ept my arms around her, feeling Sofia kick
against my stomach. "How are my girls?" "Your daughter has been using my ribs as
a jungle gym." But her smile was soft, the way it always got when she talked about
the baby. "And I'm fine. Just tired." Something flickered across her face—tension
around her eyes, a tightness in her jaw—but it was gone before I could analyze it.
Pregnancy was exhausting; I knew that. She'd been tired with Preston too,
especially toward the end. "Why don't you sit down? I'll start dinner." "You just
worked all day—" "And you've been chasing a four-year-old while growing a human.
Sit." She laughed, the sound easing something in my chest I hadn't realized was
tight. "Fine. But only because my feet are killing me." We settled into our evening
routine—Preston "helping" me in the kitchen while Brook supervised from the
couch, her feet propped up on the ottoman. This was everything. This simple,
perfect life we'd built together. Five years of marriage, and I still couldn't believe
she'd chosen me. The doorbell rang just as I was pulling the chicken from the oven.
"I'll get it," Brook said, but she was already struggling to stand. I waved her off and
headed for the door, expecting a delivery or maybe Caleb stopping by unannounced
like he did sometimes. Celeste stood on the porch, and my first thought was that
something was wrong. My little sister's face was blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed like
she'd been crying. Her hands twisted together in front of her, and she wouldn't
quite meet my gaze.
"Celeste? What's wrong? Are Mom and Dad okay?" "They're fine. I just—" Her voice
cracked. "I need to talk to you. Please, Ty. It's important." "Yeah, of course. Come
in—" "No." She glanced past me into the house, and something in her expression
made my stomach drop. "Privately. Can we... Can we talk outside?" Behind me, I
heard Brook's sharp intake of breath. I turned to see her standing in the living room
doorway, one hand braced against the frame. Her face had gone completely white.
"Brook? You okay?" "I'm fine." But her voice was thin, strained. "Preston, honey,
let's go upstairs and pick out your pajamas." "But Daddy just made dinner—" "Now,
Preston." The sharpness in her tone made our son's eyes go wide. She never
snapped at him. "Come on, baby. Let's go." She practically dragged him toward the
stairs, and the wrongness of it all settled over me like a heavy blanket. What the
hell was going on? "Celeste, what is this about?" My sister's eyes filled with tears.
"I'm so sorry, Ty. I've been struggling with this for weeks. Months, really. I didn't
know if I should say anything, but you're my brother and you deserve to know the
truth." "The truth about what?" She reached into her purse with shaking hands and
pulled out a manila envelope. "I saw something. A few months ago, I saw Brook
with someone. A man. They were... close. Too close. And I started wondering—" She
pressed the envelope into my hands. "I'm so sorry. I had to know. For you. For
Preston." My fingers felt numb as I opened the envelope. Official letterhead. DNA
Diagnostics Laboratory. A lot of technical jargon I couldn't process. And then, in
bold letters that seemed to burn into my retinas: Probability of Paternity: 0% Tyson
James Powell is excluded as the biological father of Preston Sawyer Powell . The
world tilted sideways. "No." The word came out strangled. "No, this isn't—this can't
be—" "I'm so sorry." Celeste was crying now, real tears streaming down her face. "I
didn't want to believe it either. But I had to know. I couldn't let you ke ep living a
lie." "Tyson." Brook's voice came from behind me, raw with panic. "Tyson, please,
whatever she's telling you—" I turned to face my wife. She stood at the bottom of
the stairs, her face streaked with tears, both hands cradling her pregnant belly like
she could protect our daughter from what was happening. Exc ept maybe Sofia Lake
wasn't mine either. The thought hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from
my lungs. "Is it true?" My voice didn't sound like my own. "Brook, is it true?" "No!
God, no, Tyson, you have to listen to me—" "Did you cheat on me?" "No! I would
never—"
"Then explain this!" I thrust the paper toward her, my hand shaking so badly the
document fluttered. "Explain how Preston isn't my son!" "I don't know! That test is
fake, it has to be, I never—" "Mama?" Preston's small voice cut through everything.
He stood at the top of the stairs in his dinosaur pajamas, his face crumpling. "Why
is everyone yelling?" Looking at him hurt. Those dark curls I'd always thought came
from me. Those brown eyes. The way he laughed, the way he concentrated when he
was building something. I'd seen myself in every gesture, every expression. Had it
all been a lie? "I can't—" I couldn't breathe. The walls were closing in. "I can't stay
here. I need to think." "Tyson, please!" Brook moved toward me, but I st epped back.
I couldn't let her touch me. If she touched me, I might break completely. "Please
don't do this. Don't leave. We can figure this out together—" "Figure out what? How
long you've been lying to me?" The words tasted like poison. "How many times you
looked me in the eye and let me believe—" "I'm not lying! I have never cheated on
you! Not once, not ever!" But Celeste had proof. Official documentation. Why would
my sister lie about something like this? I grabbed my keys from the hook by the
door. Brook was sobbing now, begging me to stay, to listen, but I couldn't hear her
over the roaring in my ears. Preston was crying upstairs. Everything was falling
apart.
"I'll be at Mom and Dad's," I managed. "I just—I need time." "Tyson—" I walked out,
Celeste following behind me with her sympathetic expression, and left my wife
crying in the doorway of the home we'd built together. The home that suddenly felt
like it belonged to a stranger.