Chapter 3
The hospital social worker arrived twenty minutes later.
So did security.
Not because I threatened anyone.
Because Jacob refused to leave the hallway.
He said he would wait.
I said he could wait in hell.
The nurse did not appreciate that.
Nia kept crying, and every tear made me angrier because I could not tell if she was grieving what she did or grieving that she had been caught.
The social worker, Ms. Palmer, had calm eyes and a voice that made everything sound manageable.
Nothing felt manageable.
She explained that a paternity test could be arranged.
Not instant.
Not dramatic.
Not like television.
A cheek swab.
A lab.
A wait.
I hated that the truth needed paperwork.
“Do you consent?” she asked Nia.
Nia looked at the baby.
Then at me.
“If I say no?”
I stared at her.
Ms. Palmer said gently, “Then no sample can be taken from the baby without legal steps.”
I nodded once.
“Then I’ll take legal steps.”
Nia looked wounded.
That almost made me laugh.
“You don’t trust me?” she whispered.
I looked at the cap.
JACOB.
“No.”
She flinched.
The baby stirred.
His little mouth trembled.
Then he cried.
Everything in me moved toward him.
Instinct.
Love.
Habit.
I stopped myself.
Nia noticed.
Her face crumpled.
“Marcus, hold him.”
I shook my head.
“If I hold him right now, I don’t know if I’ll survive letting go.”
Her tears fell harder.
Ms. Palmer lowered her voice.
“Mr. Brooks, biology matters. But so does attachment. Please be careful with yourself today.”
I looked at her.
“I was careful. That’s the problem. I trusted everyone.”
She had no answer.
Nia signed the consent.
So did Jacob in the hallway.
Then it was my turn.
The pen shook in my hand.
Father.
Alleged father.
Those words sat on the form like a knife.
I signed anyway.
When the nurse swabbed the baby’s cheek, he fussed.
Nia kissed his forehead.
I looked away.
Jacob watched from the doorway until security made him step back.
After the forms were done, Nia asked everyone to leave.
I stayed by the door.
She looked exhausted.
Her hair stuck to her cheek.
Her hospital gown slipped at one shoulder.
For a moment, I saw the woman I had loved.
The woman who danced barefoot in our kitchen.
The woman who cried when I proposed.
The woman who told me I was the safest place she had ever known.
Then I saw the cap again.
“What were you going to tell me?” I asked.
She looked confused.
“If he came out looking like me? Nothing?”
She closed her eyes.
“I don’t know.”
That answer was the first honest thing she had said.
It hurt more than a lie.
“I thought if he was yours, the doubt would go away.”
“And if he wasn’t?”
“I thought I would know what to do by then.”
I stepped closer.
“You let me decorate his nursery.”
“I know.”
“You let my mother knit blankets with his initials.”
She cried silently.
“You let me miss work, save money, install the car seat, pray over your stomach.”
“I know.”
“You let me love him.”
Her voice broke.
“I loved that you loved him.”
I stared at her.
“That is not the same as loving me.”
She looked down.
The baby slept again.
His tiny hand rested against her chest.
I wanted to hate that child because his face might not belong to me.
But I couldn’t.
That made everything worse.
A knock came at the door.
My mother stepped in holding balloons.
Blue ones.
Silver ones.
One that said, Welcome Grandson.
Her smile faded when she saw my face.
“Marcus?”
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
Nia began crying again.
My mother looked at the cap.
Then at me.
“Why does his hat say Jacob?”
I turned away.
She knew.
Mothers know when their sons are bleeding inside.
She set the balloons down slowly.
“What happened?”
Nia whispered, “I made a mistake.”
My mother’s face hardened.
“You do not call this a mistake until my son tells me what you did.”
I had never heard her speak that way.
Not to Nia.
Not to anyone.
I told her everything.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just word by word until the room could not pretend.
When I finished, my mother walked to me and put one hand on my face.
“You come home with me tonight.”
Nia gasped.
“Marcus, please don’t leave.”
My mother looked at her.
“He already left when you shut him out of the truth.”
Nia sobbed.
The baby slept through it all.
I envied him.
My mother took my keys from my hand.
“I’ll drive.”
I looked at the bed.
At Nia.
At the baby named Jacob.
“I’ll come back when the results come.”
Nia whispered, “And if he’s yours?”
I looked at her.
“Then we talk.”
“And if he isn’t?”
May you like
I could not answer.
Because the terrifying truth was, I already loved him.
