There was a time when I never imagined the man I lovedthe father of my childwould ever gaze into my eyes and question whether our son was truly his. Yet there I sat, upon our worn Chesterfield, cradling our infant boy while my husband and his parents hurled accusations like arrows.
It started with a glance. When my mother-in-law, Margaret, first laid eyes on little Oliver in the hospital, her lips pursed. Leaning close to my husband, Charles, while I feigned sleep, she murmured, “He doesnt look like a Whitmore.” I pretended not to hear, but her words stung worse than the stitches from my labour.
At first, Charles brushed it off. We chuckled over how newborns change so quickly, how Oliver had my brow and Charless smile. But the seed of suspicion had been sown, and Margaret nurtured it with every visit.
“Funny,” shed remark, holding Oliver up to the window, “Charles had the brightest blue eyes as a babe. Strange, isnt it, that Olivers are so brown?”
One evening, when Oliver was just three months old, Charles returned late from work. I was on the sofa, nursing the baby, my hair tangled, weariness draped over me like a sodden cloak. He didnt kiss me hello. He simply stood there, arms folded.
“We need to speak,” he said.
I knew what was coming.
“Mother and Father think its best we do a paternity test. Just to put minds at ease.”
“To put minds at ease?” My voice cracked. “You believe Ive been unfaithful?”
Charles shifted uncomfortably. “No, Beatrice. Not at all. But theyre uneasy. I only wish to settle mattersfor everyones sake.”
My heart sank. For everyone. Not for me. Not for Oliver. For them.
“Very well,” I said after a pause, swallowing my tears. “Have your test. But Ill have my terms.”
Charles frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If I endure this insult, then you must agreehere, before your parentsthat anyone who doubts me after this shall have no place in our lives.”
Charles hesitated. Behind him, Margaret stiffened, arms crossed, her gaze like frost.
“And if I refuse?”
I met his eyes, feeling Olivers soft breaths against my breast. “Then you may all leave. Do not return.”
The silence was heavy. Margaret opened her mouth to protest, but Charles silenced her with a look. He knew I wasnt bluffing. He knew I had never strayed. Oliver was his sonhis very likeness, if only hed see past his mothers venom.
“Agreed,” Charles said at last, raking a hand through his hair. “Well do the test. And if it proves you right, thats the end of it.”
Margarets face soured. “This is absurd,” she snapped. “If youve nothing to hide”
“Oh, Ive nothing to hide,” I cut in. “But you doyour spite, your endless interference. Once this is done, it ends. Or youll never lay eyes on your son or grandson again.”
Charles flinched but held his tongue.
Two days later, the test was done. A nurse swabbed Olivers tiny mouth as he whimpered in my arms. Charles gave his sample, his expression grim. That night, I held Oliver close, rocking him gently, whispering words of comfort he couldnt yet grasp.
I scarcely slept. Charles dozed on the settee. I couldnt bear him beside me while he doubtednot just me, but our child.
When the results arrived, Charles read them first. He dropped to his knees before me, the paper trembling in his hands. “Beatrice forgive me. I never should have”
“Dont apologise to me,” I said coolly, lifting Oliver from his cradle and settling him on my lap. “Apologise to your son. And to yourself. For youve lost something you can never reclaim.”
But my fight wasnt over. The test was only the beginning.
Charles knelt there, clutching the proof of what he should have always known. His eyes were red, but I felt nothingno warmth, no sorrow. Only hollow silence where trust had once lived.
Behind him, Margaret and my father-in-law, Reginald, stood motionless. Margarets lips were pressed so thin theyd gone white. She dared not meet my gaze. Good.
“You gave your word,” I said evenly, rocking Oliver, who cooed, blissfully unaware. “You vowed that if the test settled this, youd cut out anyone who still doubted me.”
Charles swallowed hard. “Beatrice, please. Shes my mother. She was only concerned”
“Concerned?” I laughed bitterly, making Oliver startle. I kissed his downy head. “She poisoned you against your own wife and child. Called me a liarall because she cannot bear to loosen her grip on your life.”
Margaret stepped forward, her voice quivering with indignation. “Beatrice, dont be theatrical. We did what any family would. We had to be certain”
“No,” I interrupted. “Good families trust one another. Good husbands dont demand proof of their childrens parentage. You wanted certainty? You have it. Now youll have something else.”
Charles stared at me, bewildered. “Beatrice, what do you mean?”
I drew a steadying breath, feeling Olivers heartbeat against mine. “I want you all gone. Now.”
Margaret gasped. Reginald spluttered. Charless face paled. “What? Beatrice, you cantthis is our home”
“No,” I said firmly. “This is Olivers home. Mine and his. And you shattered it. You humiliated me. You will not raise my son where his mother is called a cheat.”
Charles rose, anger flaring as guilt faded. “Beatrice, be sensible”
“I was sensible,” I snapped. “When I agreed to that vile test. When I endured your mothers barbs about my appearance, my cooking, my kin. I was sensible allowing her into our lives at all.”
I stood, holding Oliver tighter. “But Im done with sense. Stay if you wish. But your parents leave. Today. Or you all go.”
Margarets voice turned shrill. “Charles! Youd let her do this? Your own mother”
Charles looked at me, then at Oliver, then at the floor. For the first time in years, he seemed a lost boy in his own house. He turned to Margaret and Reginald. “Mother. Father. Perhaps its best you go.”
The silence shattered Margarets composure. Her face twisted with rage. Reginald placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shook him off.
“This is your wifes doing,” she spat at Charles. “Dont expect our pardon.”
She turned to me, eyes sharp as flint. “Youll rue this. You think youve won, but youll regret it when he comes crawling back.”
I smiled. “Farewell, Margaret.”
Within minutes, Reginald gathered their coats, muttering apologies Charles couldnt answer. Margaret left without a backward glance. When the door closed, the house seemed larger, quieterbut lighter.
Charles sank onto the settee, staring at his hands. He looked up at me, his voice barely a whisper. “Beatrice Im sorry. I should have defended youdefended us.”
I nodded. “Yes. You should have.”
He reached for my hand. I let him hold itfor a breaththen withdrew. “Charles, I dont know if I can forgive this. You broke my trust in themand in you.”
Tears welled in his eyes. “Tell me how to mend it. Ill do anything.”
I gazed down at Oliver, who yawned and curled his tiny fingers into my shawl. “Begin by earning it back. Be the father he deserves. Be the husband I deserveif you wish to try. And if you ever let them near us without my leave, youll lose us for good. Understood?”
Charles nodded, shoulders sagging. “Understood.”
In the weeks that followed, things shifted. Margaret called, pleaded, ragedI didnt answer. Neither did Charles. He returned early each evening, took Oliver for strolls so I might rest, prepared supper. He looked at our son as if seeing him anewperhaps, in a way, he was.
Trust, once broken, is not easily repaired. Some nights, I lie awake wondering if Ill ever see Charles as I once did. But each morning, when I watch him feed Oliver his porridge, or hear him make the babe laugh, I think perhapsjust perhapswe might mend.
Were not perfect. But were ours. And for now, thats enough.
