We haven’t seen Denise since. Her final message was a mix of apologies and excuses. I blocked her number.
Adam’s father, however, showed up a few weeks later. Quiet. Changed. He never asked to explain. He simply began to visit. He brings toys now. He reads bedtime stories. He stays long enough to help, not long enough to intrude.
He’s not the man Adam thought raised him. But he’s trying to be the man who stands beside him now.
Our son—he grows fast. He runs, he laughs, he calls me “mama” and reaches for Adam with joy.
The DNA tests are in a drawer somewhere, untouched. We haven’t opened them since that day.
