Page 7 of One Sweet Lie

“You’re allowed to pick her up,” the nurse said. “Go ahead.”

I obliged, and she continued wailing against my chest.

“See how her little fists are clenched?” the nurse whispered, holding out a small bottle. “She might be hungry.”

Sitting in a chair, I fed her the bottle, and the nurse showed me how to burp her and change the diaper.

The moment she finished those lessons, the boy cried and showed me his clenched fists.

I couldn’t walk away, so I vowed to stay through his diaper change.

Twenty more minutes. Tops.

The next time I looked at my watch, it was eleven o’clock in the morning.

‘Maybe Mine’and ‘Not Sure Yet’ hadn’t left my sight in a week. On the off chance that the paternity results came for me, I’d never be able to live with myself if I abandoned them—even if they weren’t giving me a chance to sleep or handle any work.

Between feeding and changing sessions, rocking them against my chest, and watching the doctors run tests, I’d answered ten emails and taken two phone calls.

How the hell would my lifestyle work if they actually are mine?

Every time I asked myself that question, one of them cried. Or pooped…

“Mr. Dawson?” Detective Calvin shook my shoulder. “Are you awake?”

Barely.“Yes.”

“I have the DNA results.” He held out an envelope but didn’t give it to me. “Regardless of what these words say, you’re in your mid-forties.”

“I’m fully aware of that, Detective.”

“Don’t you think you’re in a position where you could take on a bit of charity?”

I was too exhausted for a conversation. I reached for the envelope, but he lifted it higher.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is,” he said, “wouldn’t it be fitting for you to adopt these children, like someone adopted you? You have enough money to give them a wonderful home.”

I gave him a withering look. “Hand over the envelope.”

“If you walk away from these beautiful children, the guilt will eat you alive,” he said. “The nurse said you’ve already highlighted names and contacted a few clothing designers.”

“If I have to ask you again, we’re going to have a problem…”

“Fine.” He tossed it into my lap.

Too impatient to worry about his presence, I ripped the flap and pulled out the papers. Flipping through them, I skimmed until I reached the last line.

Based on the analysis listed above, the probability of paternity is 99.99%

~

Three Months Later

THREE

HARLOW

If I were ever forced to listen to one sound for the rest of my life, the cacophony of a commercial kitchen would be my first choice.

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