He handed me an envelope on the doorstep, his voice low: Its a DNA test. She isnt my daughter.Miriam, youve the nerve! This was the third accusation in a month.
Agnes, Ive explainedI have a sick granddaughter! I have nowhere to leave her! I protested, trying not to raise my voice.
And what am I to do? I cant keep finding a substitute each week! This isnt a nursery, its a chemists shop! Agnes Petty, the shop manager, scolded Miriam for yet another absence. Miriam bowed her head, tears welling as she tried to justify herself.
Its my last chance, Agnes whispered. If it happens again, youre outno discussion.
Miriam nodded and hurried back to the counter. I, Eleanor, stood in the back room pretending to sort boxes of medicines. Working in the chemists shop was never easyconstant turnover, irate customers, a stern foreman. Yet I needed the wages; there was no other way.
That evening I returned home exhausted. The flat was empty; George had not yet come back from the railway depot, and our daughter Milly was staying with a friend to finish her homework. I changed into something comfortable, set the kettle on, and collapsed onto the settee.
At fortytwo I felt older than my years. Fatigue, headaches, sleepless nightsdoctors called it stress and handed out vitamins, but nothing lifted the heaviness. My mobile buzzed with a message from Milly: she would be at Lucys for dinner and be back by nine. I replied briefly, Alright, be back soon.
Milly, fifteen, had my husbands dark hair and hazel eyes, a straight nose. George always beamed with pride that Milly took after him, not after me. I was fairhaired, greyeyed, with delicate features.
The front door opened and George stepped in, dropping his bag by the hall and heading straight to the kitchen without a greeting.
Hello, I said. How was the day?
Fine, he muttered, gulping water in one swig. I watched him, trying to read his mood. He seemed sullen, tenseunlike his usual cheerful self when he arrived home with stories of the depot.
Everything all right?
Yeah, he grunted, retreating to the bedroom.
Something was clearly wrong. Perhaps trouble at work? He was a depot manager, and the job could be demanding.
I went to him. He sat on the bed, staring at a point on the wall.
George, whats happening? You seem…odd.
He lifted his eyes to meet mine, a coldness Id never seen before.
We need to talk.
About what?
About Milly.
I sat beside him.
Whats wrong? Is something wrong with her?
Its fine with her. Its me.
I dont understand.
He rose, walked to the cupboard, and pulled out an envelope, handing it to me.
Read this.
The envelope bore the seal of a laboratory. Inside lay a sheet of tables and figures. I skimmed the numbers, bewildered.
What is this?
A DNA test, George said, crossing his arms. I had it done a month ago.
A chill ran down my spine.
Why a DNA test? For what?
To confirm paternity. I wanted to be sure Milly was my child.
Youve gone mad! I snapped. Of course shes yours!
No, he replied calmly. She isnt. Look here, at the bottom. The conclusion: paternity excluded.
I turned the page. In stark black letters it read: Probability of paternity zero percent.
This must be a mistake, I whispered, my heart pounding. It cant be true.
Why not? his voice hardened. Maybe you have something to tell me?
What are you talking about? I dont know whats happening!
Dont pretend. You cheated on me. Milly isnt mine.
I sank back onto the bed, my legs giving way, my mind a whirl.
I never cheated. Never! I cried.
Then explain why the test says Im not the father.
I dont know! Maybe the lab mixed up samples?
George smirked. Thats what everyone says. Labs make mistakes. But this is one of the best in the country. They dont err.
George, listen to me, I grabbed his hand. I swear I never cheated. Milly is your daughter, Im certain of it!
He pulled his hand away. So youll keep lying to my face?
Im not lying!
He shrugged his coat on. I need to think. Ill be away for a few days, staying with my mother.
You cant just leave! We have to sort this out!
Do it yourself. Im tired of the lies.
He slammed the door as he left. I sat on the bed, the envelope clenched in my fingers. This could not be real. I remembered every moment of my pregnancy, every heartbeat, every night we spent together, believing Milly was ours.
Tears streamed down my cheeks. What could this possibly mean?
Milly returned at nine, brighteyed and cheerful. Mum, hi! Lucy and I talked about the biology projectshe has a brilliant idea!
I wiped my tears and forced a smile. Thats wonderful, love.
Mum, are you crying? Milly asked, noticing.
Nothing, just tired. Go have dinner.
Wheres dad?
Hes at Grandmas. Shes got things to do.
Milly shrugged and went to the kitchen. I lingered, trying to gather my thoughts. I needed help, so I called my old friend Violet.
Eleanor, love, whats wrong?
Violet, can I come over? I asked.
Of course, come straight away. What happened?
Its too personal to explain now. Ill be there soon.
I told Milly not to go anywhere and made my way to Violets modest twobedroom flat in the neighbouring suburb. Wed been friends since school, trusting each other implicitly.
Violet opened the door, worry etched on her face. Eleanor, you look pale! Sit down, tell me everything.
I recounted the DNA test, Georges accusations, his sudden departure. Violet listened, eyes wide.
He actually had a DNA test done? Why?
I dont know. Perhaps he doubted us.
But everything seemed fine before.
I thought so too.
Violet thought a moment. Did the test definitely say Milly isnt yours?
Yes. Zero percent.
Thats impossible!
Its exactly what Im thinking. Ive never cheated, Violet. I swear.
I know you, Eleanor. You wouldnt do that.
What do we do? Could it be a lab error?
Any lab can make a mistake. People are human. Maybe the samples got swapped.
Do you think I should get a second test, at a different lab?
Yes, a repeat test would settle it.
Relief surged through me. I searched online for reputable medical centres and booked an appointment at a clinic with toprated reviews.
George was silent. I messaged him several times, but he never replied. Milly kept asking about her father, and I told her Grandmother was busy and Dad would be back soon.
On Saturday Milly and I went to the clinic. She didnt understand why we needed a swab, but I said it was just a health check. The nurse took a cheek swab; the whole thing took five minutes. Results were promised in a week.
Why do we need this? Milly asked on the way home.
Just for peace of mind, I answered. Its good to keep an eye on health.
The week crawled by. I worked at the chemists shop, cooked, cleaned, but my thoughts never left the pending result. Finally, on the fifth day, George called.
Hey, how are you both?
Were fine, I said tersely. Milly wants to know about you.
Tell her Ill be back soon. I have something to think over.
George, I did a second DNA test at another lab.
There was a pause. Why?
To doublecheck. Im convinced the first was wrong.
Enough with the selfdeception.
Im not deceiving anyone! The result comes in two days. Come and well read it together.
He hesitated, then agreed.
When Monday arrived, the results came by email. My hands trembled as I opened the file. The same stark line stared back: Probability of paternity zero percent. Two independent tests, two different labs, identical conclusion.
I reread it several times. It could not be true. Milly was certainly our child; the tests said otherwise. I sat at the back of the shop, staring at my phone screen, bewildered.
That evening George arrived. I showed him the second report. He glanced at it, then nodded.
You see? Same result.
But I dont understand, my voice cracked. I swear I never cheated!
Eleanor, the facts are plain. Milly isnt my child. That means you must have been unfaithful.
No! Could it be a problem with you? Some genetic quirk?
What quirk? Thats nonsense.
Then how do we explain it?
He sat opposite me. Lets think back to when Milly was conceived. Autumn, right? We werent married yet, wed been seeing each other for six months.
Yes, September.
Did you see anyone else during that time?
No, only you!
Are you certain?
Absolutely!
He sighed. Then Im at a loss.
A memory flickered. George, are you really my husband?
He stared, bewildered. What are you saying?
Maybe we were switched at the birth? Could the baby have been swapped?
Youre hearing things, I said, frantic. I read stories about baby swaps!
That was fifteen years ago. We took Milly from the hospital ourselves. No one could have swapped her.
How do you know?
Because weve had her all these years.
A sudden thought struck me. Wait. Were you my husband?
He looked at me as if Id gone mad. What?
I mean could I have been adopted? Or could there have been a medical procedure?
He frowned. What are you getting at?
I remember a doctor once I had some issues, and he suggested a treatment. I cant recall the details.
What kind of treatment?
I dont know. Maybe an injection.
That sounds absurd.
Im not sure! It was a long time ago!
He told me to check my old medical records. I rummaged through drawers, found a folder from the maternity clinic dated that September. The diagnosis: infertility, recommendation for artificial insemination.
Artificial insemination.
I reread the note, stunned. I had completely forgotten that wed been advised to use donor sperm. I called the clinic.
Good afternoon, Im calling about a procedure from fifteen years ago. Could you tell me whose donor material was used?
The operator put me on hold, then a middleaged woman answered. Your file is with Dr. Seymour, who passed away five years ago. The records show donor material was used, but the donors identity wasnt recorded.
So Ill never know who the biological father is? I asked.
Im sorry, we have no further details.
It meant Milly was conceived with donor sperm, not Georges.
That night I told George everything. He listened in silence.
Did you sign any consent forms? he asked.
I think I did, but I didnt read them. I trusted the doctor.
He paced the room. So I raised a child that isnt my blood.
No! Milly is ours! We raised her, we love her!
Hes not my blood, he said.
I took his hands. George, I didnt cheat. I was misled by a doctor. The test is correct; the child isnt yours by biology, but youve been her father in every way that matters.
He was quiet. What will you do now?
I dont know. I need time.
The days that followed were tense. George stayed at home, speaking to Milly as before but keeping his distance from me. Milly sensed the strain.
Mum, is something wrong with you and Dad? she asked one afternoon.
No, love. Just tired, I replied.
Are you getting a divorce? she persisted.
No, no. Everything will be fine.
One evening George called me to the kitchen. Ive decided. Ill stay.
Relief washed over me. Really?
Yes. Ive thought it through. Milly is my daughter, even if not by blood. I love her, and I love you.
Tears filled my eyes. Thank you.
Just one condition, he said, raising his hand. We never tell Milly the truth. She should believe Im her biological father.
I agree. Well keep it secret.
Well put this behind us and start anew.
We embraced, the tension finally easing. The crisis had passed; the family remained whole.
Time went on. Life settled back into its familiar rhythm. Milly grew, attended school, George worked at the depot, and I continued at the chemists shop. The DNA test never resurfaced.
Occasionally I wondered about the anonymous donorwho he was, what his life was like. But those thoughts were pushed away. What mattered was that Milly was happy, and our family stayed together.
One day Milly came home excited. Mum, Dad, our school is offering genetic ancestry testing! Everyone can find out where their roots lie. Lucy already did hers and discovered Scandinavian ancestry!
George raised an eyebrow. Do you really need that?
Its interesting! I want to know my heritage.
Its not very accurate, I warned. The lab isnt that reliable.
Why not? Its a reputable lab! Milly insisted.
George sighed. Fine, you can do it, but we wont join.
Milly smiled and left for school. Later she returned, beaming. Look, I have Eastern European and a hint of Caucasian roots!
George chuckled. Nice.
Are you sure you dont want to test? I asked.
No, were fine, he replied.
Milly didnt press further, and the subject faded.
I often caught Georges eye, warm and understanding. He had forgiven me, even though there was technically nothing to forgive. He accepted the situation, kept the family intact, and for that I was endlessly grateful.
The lesson I learned, looking back, is that a family is built not on shared genes but on love, care, and the daily acts of kindness. George truly became Millys father in every sense that counts, and no DNA report could ever change that.
