After ten years of marriage, I discovered an unfamiliar paternity test on my husband Bruce Dryden's computer. The report says that the son I've raised for a decade—Gerald Dryden—isn't biologically mine. But I raised this child myself. If that's the case, where is my biological child? "Honey, what are you still doing in the study so late?" Hearing his voice, I quickly close the document, guilt washes over me. He notices anyway. His face darkens as he looks at me. "So, you don't trust me that much!" I open the paternity test report and confront him, demanding an explanation. But he quickly shuts down the computer, accusing me of invading his privacy. Watching his retreating back, I realize how distant we've become after ten years of marriage. Calmly, I open the drawer and tear up the tenth-anniversary gift I had prepared. ... I pull open the bottom drawer, revealing a signed share transfer agreement. I had planned to transfer 15% of the company's shares to him as a gift for our tenth anniversary tomorrow. But now, it seems pointless. I take the agreement out and tear it to pieces. The shreds fall into the trash bin, mixing with the wrapping paper of the prepared anniversary gifts. Looking at those gifts, I no longer feel the joy of preparing them; instead, I feel a wave of nausea. When I return to the bedroom, Bruce is already in bed, as if nothing happened. I stand at the door for a long time, watching his sleeping back, before turning to the guest room. I don't sleep a wink all night. The next morning, Bruce wakes me up. He stands at the door of the guest room, his face full of anger. "Thera, what do you mean by sleeping in the guest room?" I sit up and look at him. This face I've known for ten years now feels so unfamiliar. "I need some space." He tries to say something, but in the end, he just shakes his head. "Whatever." After Bruce leaves for work, I make breakfast as usual. Gerald sits at the table, drinking milk. "Mom, you look pale." I touch his hair, soft and curly like Bruce's. Over the years, many people have said they look alike. "I didn't sleep well last night. Hurry up and eat, or you'll be late." On the way to school, I keep drifting off. At a red light, I turn around, pretending to adjust his collar, and I carefully pull a loose strand of hair caught on his collar. "There's gray hair. Let me take it out for you." I say, tucking the hair into a small notebook I carry with me. After watching Gerald walk into school, I head to the paternity testing center. "How soon can I get the results with an expedited service?" "Normally it takes five working days, but with an expedited service, you can get the results before 4:00 PM today. The cost is triple." "Expedited, please." My hand trembles a bit when I submit the sample. After taking my oral swab, I sit in the waiting area, watching the clock tick by. During this time, I contact a private detective. "I want to look into my husband, Bruce Dryden, especially his whereabouts in the past few months." At 3:40 PM, my phone rings; the results are out. I open the electronic report and go straight to the end. "DNA analysis shows that the probability of a parent-child relationship between Thera Dryden and Gerald Dryden is 0.0001%." "Genetic marker analysis does not support Thera Dryden being Gerald Dryden's biological mother." I thought I was prepared. I wasn't. The words blur, and I slide down the wall, my legs giving out beneath me. Not my child. I've raised a child for nearly ten years who isn't biologically mine. Where is my real child? I rush to the maternity hospital where I gave birth nine years ago. I meet the obstetrician from back then, who is now the department head. I get straight to the point. "Dr. Felix, I'd like to review my delivery records and hospital files from back then." Her smile falters. "It's been so long; the files might be archived." After some effort, the records room staff finally bring over a folder. I flip through it and find the records are extremely brief, listing only admission and discharge dates, delivery method, and the newborn's weight. The file is strangely thin—no nursing logs, no pediatric assessments, nothing beyond the bare minimum. "Is this all there is?" She apologizes. "That's all in the system. Paper records for obstetric cases are usually kept for ten years, and yours is almost up." "What about the newborn's footprints? The blood sample records?" She shakes her head. "Those should be in the neonatal records, but we couldn't find them." Something isn't right. An overly simplified medical record, missing neonatal records, and a son who isn't biologically mine but looks like my husband. My phone rings. It's Bruce. "Where did you go? I picked up Gerald." I realize it's past school dismissal time, but I had told the teacher beforehand. "I'm out running errands and will be home soon." I hang up immediately. After dinner, I excuse myself with a headache and head to the bedroom early. Bruce stays in the living room, helping Gerald with his homework. Their voices drift in faintly. "Dad, is Mom upset?" "Mom's just tired. Finish your homework and go to bed early." Once they've both fallen asleep, I begin to quietly search the entire house. The master bedroom, the living room, and Gerald's room, I search everywhere. But I find nothing. Finally, I look at the computer in the study, thinking the truth must be there.
Footsteps sound outside the door, and I close the document. When Bruce pushes the door open, I'm tidying up the desk. He glances at the computer screen, which is now back to the desktop, showing a photo of us by the sea three years ago. "Not asleep yet?" "Just going through some old files." I reply, turning off the monitor as I speak. He stands there for a moment, as if he wants to say something, but in the end, he just nods. "Get some rest." I sit in the dark, listening to his footsteps fade away. That night, I don't turn the computer back on and lie in bed with my mind in a mess. The next morning, I tell Bruce to take Gerald to school. He looks at me, then picks up the car keys. "Alright." As soon as they leave, I head straight to the study. I turn on the computer and type in the password, our wedding anniversary. It's wrong. I try his birthday, wrong again. Then our son's birthday, still dead end. Then the date we first met... His mother's birthday... And the day the company was founded. None of them work. The system prompts me to try again in fifteen minutes. I sit in the chair, staring at the login screen. This computer, which we bought together, is now locked to me. When Bruce gets home from work in the evening, he takes off his coat. "I'm flying to Portle tomorrow. Don't know how long I'll be gone." I come out of the kitchen with a dish. "So urgent? Who's going with you?" He puts his briefcase on the table and turns to look at me. "It's a last-minute arrangement, Thera. Could you stop it?" I look at him in silence, wondering why a casual question would cause such a reaction. "You question everything, suspect everyone. I'm just going to work." I turn to serve the rice, my hand trembling a bit. "Just asking." He doesn't say anything more and goes straight into the bedroom. Dinner is done in silence. Gerald seems to sense something and, unusually, doesn't pick at his food. After Bruce takes a shower, he comes out and picks up the coat on the sofa to hang it on the rack. A receipt falls out of his pocket and lands at my feet. After he leaves, I pick it up and take a look. It's a perfume invoice, expensive, purchased yesterday afternoon. I don't recognize the perfume, but I know it's not for me. In ten years of marriage, Bruce has never given me a gift. I used to make excuses for him, thinking he's not romantic, too busy with work. Now it seems he's not incapable of romance. He just never shows me any when we are together. I jot down the information on the invoice. The next morning, as soon as Bruce heads to the airport, I call the boutique. "I'd like to check this invoice, yes, from yesterday afternoon." "Let me check. Found it. The purchaser is Ms. Judith Dickey." Judith Dickey. The name rings a bell. Bruce's secretary, hired half a year ago, is a divorced woman in her thirties. On the way to the airport, I don't know what I want to confirm. Maybe the perfume is for a client, and maybe I'm reading too much into it. I wait outside the international departure hall for half an hour before I see Bruce and her. Judith, in a beige trench coat and dragging a small suitcase, walks over with Bruce. Bruce's face wears a relaxed smile I haven't seen in a long time. Then, in front of the security checkpoint, Judith stops and naturally reaches up to straighten Bruce's collar. Bruce doesn't flinch. He leans down and whispers something in her ear. Judith smiles, then rises on her toes and kisses him on the lips. Bruce's hand rests on her waist for a moment before they part, as if it's second nature to them. The last shred of self-deception I held onto vanishes completely. So those late nights at work, those impatient looks he gave me, they all had a reason. As I watch their intimate figures, a suspicion gradually forms in my mind. Could that child who isn't mine have anything to do with this woman? On the way back, I call the private detective I hired a few days ago. "Find out more about Judith Dickey. I want to know everything about her, especially if she has any children."
The detective works quickly, and by the afternoon of the next day, I receive the investigation report. Judith Dickey, thirty-two years old, divorced five years ago, has a ten-year-old son named Carter Dickey, who attends a primary school in the west of the city. That date suddenly jumps out at me. Judith's son is only a week younger than Gerald. For the first time in ten years, rage surged through me. I sit on the sofa, holding the report sent by the detective. Then, an idea pops into my head, and I rush into the study. My fingers hover over the keyboard before slowly typing in Judith's birthday. The desktop opens, revealing only a folder named "Work Backup." I click on it, and it's filled with subfolders, organized by year, starting eleven years ago. The earliest folder contains scanned old photos. Bruce and Judith in school uniforms, standing under a locust tree. Nineteen-year-old Bruce smiles, his hand on Judith's shoulder. Judith, with a ponytail, looks up at him. The next one is from college, in the library. The one after that is their graduation photo, both in academic gowns, holding hands. That year, Bruce told me the company was in trouble, and we canceled our anniversary trip. I close the folder, feeling a bit nauseous. Ten years. Every single one of them built on lies. Looking at the wallpaper of Bruce and me on our wedding day, I feel a wave of revulsion. At three in the afternoon, I drive to the west of the city. The primary school is even older than the detective described. The school bell rings, and children pour out of the gate. I sit in the car, gripping the steering wheel. Carter walks out alone, with no one to pick him up. He looks around, then slowly moves forward along the sidewalk. I hold my breath. That child, Carter. No, that's my child. The way he walks is a bit like mine, with a slight inward tilt. When he raises his hand to adjust his hair, I see a birthmark on his wrist, in the same spot as mine. I see dust on his eyelashes, his lips a bit dry, the edge of his shoe already coming unglued. His eyes look empty, not like those of a ten-year-old. I cover my mouth to keep from making a sound. He walks away and disappears around the corner. I collapse over the steering wheel and cry uncontrollably. For that child walking home alone, for the ten years of misplaced life, and for myself, living like a fool in a play orchestrated by the traitors. Then I dry my tears and start the car. At the law firm, I place the USB drive in front of Lawyer Henley. It contains backups of all the photos, the paternity test report, scanned hospital records, the perfume invoice, and information on Judith and Carter. "I want a divorce. I want him to leave with nothing. I want custody of my blood and for him to pay the price he deserves." As I leave the law firm, I remember what Bruce said when he proposed ten years ago. "Thera, I'll give you a lifetime of stability." So the lifetime he meant was only ten years. No, maybe even less. I take out my phone and call the company's second-largest shareholder, also my father's old colleague. "Mr. Watt, I'd like to talk to you about next week's board meeting." Bruce probably forgot that the company bears the Adam name.
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