Brook
I arrived at Accu Test Labs at 2:30 PM, a full half hour early. Lake had driven us, her
jaw tight with barely suppressed rage the entire way. Preston sat in his car seat
humming the Paw Patrol theme song, blissfully unaware that his entire world was
crumbling. I'd dressed carefully that morning. Not the yoga pants and oversized
t-shirt I'd been living in. Real jeans—the maternity ones that actually fit under my
belly. A soft blue sweater that Tyson always said brought out my eyes. I'd even put
on makeup, covering the dark circles and the puffiness from crying. Armor. That's
what it was. War paint. "You okay?" Lake asked as she pulled into a parking spot.
"No." I unbuckled my seatbelt, my hands shaking. "What if he doesn't show up?"
"Then we have our answer about what kind of man he really is." Lake's voice was
hard. "But he'll show. He's an idiot, not a complete monster." The distinction felt
meaningless right now. I got Preston out of his car seat, settling him on my hip even
though my back protested and Sofia was pressing against my ribs. My son wrapped
his arms around my neck, and I breathed in his baby shampoo scent, trying to
steady myself. We went inside. The waiting room was generic—beige walls,
outdated magazines, chairs that had seen better days. I checked in at the front
desk, my voice surprisingly steady as I gave our names. "Mr. Powell called to
confirm he'd be here," the rec eptionist said with a professional smile. "You can have
a seat. We'll call you back
shortly." So he was coming. The relief and dread hit me simultaneously, a one-two
punch that left me breathless. Lake sat beside me, her hand finding mine. Preston
climbed into her lap, and she pulled out her phone to show him videos. I watched
the clock. 2:35. 2:41. 2:47. At 2:58, I heard it—the rumble of Tyson's truck pulling
into the parking lot. My entire body went rigid. "Breathe," Lake whispered.
"Remember, you're the one who did nothing wrong." The door opened. And there he
was. He looked terrible. His hair was a mess, sticking up like he'd been running his
hands through it all night. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His clothes were
wrinkled—the same ones he'd been wearing yesterday. He hadn't shaved. He
looked like he'd been hit by a truck. Good. His eyes found mine immediately, and
something in his expression crumpled. "Brook—" "We're here for a test." My voice
came out cold, flat. Unrecognizable even to myself. "Nothing more." He took a st ep
toward me, his hand reaching out. "Baby, please, I just want to—"
"Don't." I st epped back, and he froze like I'd slapped him. "Do not call me that and
don't touch me." "Daddy!" Preston's excited shriek cut through the tension. He
scrambled out of Lake's lap and ran toward Tyson, his little legs pumping. Tyson
dropped to his knees and caught him, pulling our son against his chest. Preston's
arms went around his neck, and Tyson's eyes closed, his face pressing into
Preston's hair. I had to look away. Had to, because seeing them together—seeing
how identical they were, from the shape of their eyes to the cowlick at Preston's
crown to the way they both scrunched their noses when they smiled—was breaking
something inside me that I couldn't afford to have broken right now. "I missed you,
buddy," Tyson's voice was rough, thick. "Miss you too! Where have you been?" "I... I
had to stay at Grandma and Grandpa's house." "Why?" "It's complicated, bud." I
watched my son's small hand pat Tyson's cheek, the gesture so tender and trusting
it made my throat close up. Preston didn't know. Didn't understand that his father
had looked at him yesterday and doubted. Had questioned whether this little
boy—who had his eyes, his smile, his stubborn chin—was really his. "Powell
family?" A lab tech appeared in the doorway, clipboard in hand. I stood, smoothing
down my sweater. "That's us."
Tyson set Preston down and straightened. He tried to catch my eye, but I looked
past him, focusing on the tech. "If you'll follow me," she said with a professional
smile. The testing room was small and clinical. The tech explained the
process—cheek swabs, simple and non-invasive. She'd do Preston first, then Tyson.
"Mom, you can hold him if that makes him more comfortable," she said to me. I
lifted Preston onto the examination table, ke eping my body angled away from
Tyson. I could feel him watching me. Could feel the weight of everything he wanted
to say pressing against my back. Preston did great with the swab, opening wide and
saying "Ahhhh" like he was at the doctor's. The tech praised him, gave him a
sticker. "Alright, Dad, you're next." Tyson sat on the table. The tech swabbed his
cheek, sealed the sample, labeled everything carefully. "Results will be ready in two
to three business days," she said. "We'll call with the results, and you can pick up
physical copies if needed." "I want them emailed," I said. "To both of us." "Of
course. I have both email addresses on file." "Brook." Tyson's voice was quiet.
Pleading. "Can we please just—" "No." I picked up Preston, settling him on my hip.
"We're done here." "When can I see him?" He gestured to Preston. "When can I see
my son?" The words were out before I could stop them, sharp and cutting. "You
gave up that right when you decided he wasn't yours."
Tyson flinched like I'd hit him. "Brook, that's not—I never said—" "You didn't have
to say it. You believed it. You looked at that fake piece of paper your sister gave
you, and you believed it." My voice was shaking now, the cold facade cracking. "You
looked at your son— your son who looks exactly like you, who has your eyes and
your smile and your stubborn attitude—and you doubted him. You doubted me."
"I'm sorry." His voice broke. "God, Brook, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking clearly, I
just—" "You have the results in two to three days," I cut him off. "Until then, stay
away from us. Stay away from my house." "Your house? Brook, it's our—" "No. Not
anymore." I turned toward the door where Lake was waiting. "Come on, Preston.
Let's go home." "Bye, Daddy!" Preston waved over my shoulder. "Bye, bud. I love
you." Tyson's voice was wrecked. "I love you so much." I didn't look back. I didn't let
him see the tears finally spilling down my cheeks. I just k ept walking, k ept moving
forward, because if I stopped—if I let myself feel the full weight of what was
happening— I would shatter completely. And I couldn't afford to shatter. Not yet. I
still had a war to fight.