Chapter 4 - THE PATERNITY TEST
We made it thirty-one hours without discussing Daphne.
That was a family record.
Charleston helped.
So did oysters.
So did sleeping until ten.
Lucas and I walked along the Battery, ate somewhere with no tablecloths, and spent one afternoon doing absolutely nothing except arguing about whether we needed another throw blanket for an apartment that already had six.
Normal newlywed things.
I had forgotten normal could exist.
Then I turned my phone back on.
Forty-seven messages.
I sighed.
Lucas looked at the screen.
“Should we throw it in the harbor?”
“Environmentally irresponsible.”
“Good point.”
Most messages were family.
Dad:
Call when you’re ready. I’m sorry.
Mom:
Please don’t shut us out.
Daphne:
I need to explain before everyone decides I’m evil.
Wyatt:
When you have a minute, I need to ask you something about Brandon. No rush. Enjoy Charleston.
The fact that Wyatt wrote no rush while his marriage disintegrated almost made me cry.
I called him first.
He answered immediately.
“Charlotte.”
“Hey.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing for things you didn’t do.”
He was quiet.
Then:
“Did Brandon contact you before the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I told him.
Brandon had called three days earlier after a mutual college friend mentioned Daphne planned a pregnancy announcement.
He said the dates worried him.
He did not initially ask to attend.
I invited him after he showed me messages proving Daphne had recently seen him.
“I thought if she went through with the cake, the truth should be in the room.”
Wyatt exhaled.
“I understand.”
“I should have told you before.”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“You don’t owe me responsibility for discovering my wife’s affair.”
Same lesson.
Victims did not become responsible because they failed to predict someone else’s deception.
I was apparently learning.
“Has she agreed to testing?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“What kind?”
“Noninvasive prenatal paternity test.”
I knew enough from frantic overnight research to understand it could be done with maternal blood and potential fathers’ samples without harming the pregnancy.
“Both you and Brandon?”
“Yes.”
“And Daphne?”
“She agreed after her doctor explained it.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
Results expected within a week.
Wyatt’s voice changed.
“Charlotte.”
“Yes?”
“Your mother knew.”
“I know.”
He was silent.
“She admitted it?”
“Some.”
He laughed bitterly.
“She told me after the wedding that Daphne had made one mistake and families survive mistakes.”
My jaw tightened.
“Mom has a very flexible definition of one.”
“Apparently.”
Then Wyatt said:
“I found something.”
“What?”
“A clinic bill.”
I sat down on the hotel balcony.
Lucas looked over.
“What clinic?”
“A private obstetric practice.”
“So?”
“Daphne went there two weeks before the wedding.”
“That’s normal.”
“Without me.”
Still possible.
Then:
“She paid cash.”
My stomach tightened.
“For what?”
“Ultrasound.”
“Dating scan.”
There it was.
Wyatt continued.
“She told me her first ultrasound was at our regular OB.”
It wasn’t.
The private scan had estimated gestational age precisely enough that Daphne knew conception could overlap with both men.
Not proof.
But uncertainty.
“What did she say?”
“That she panicked.”
“Why hide it?”
“She said she wanted more information first.”
“And then announced publicly.”
“Yes.”
I looked out at the water.
The entire plan became uglier.
She knew.
Maybe not who the father was.
But enough to know Wyatt deserved the truth before applause.
Instead, she had created applause first.
A shield.
Exactly like Brandon’s message said.
“Wyatt.”
“Yes?”
“What are you going to do if the baby is yours?”
Long silence.
“I don’t know.”
Fair.
“And if it isn’t?”
“I still don’t know.”
That surprised me.
He continued.
“I loved her.”
Past tense.
Not because love vanished in three days.
Because sometimes grammar changes before the heart catches up.
“I’m angry enough that I keep thinking everything was fake.”
His voice softened.
“But that probably isn’t true.”
“No.”
“Some of it was real.”
“Yes.”
“That almost makes it harder.”
I understood.
People wanted betrayal to repaint every memory.
It rarely did.
Good moments remained good moments.
They simply stopped being evidence of a good future.
A week later, results came.
Lucas and I were home.
I was making coffee when Daphne called.
Not text.
Call.
I almost ignored it.
Then answered.
She was crying so hard I barely understood her.
“Charlotte.”
“What happened?”
Silence.
Then:
“It’s Brandon.”
I closed my eyes.
The baby was Brandon’s.
“Are you sure?”
“Ninety-nine point nine percent.”
My heart hurt for Wyatt.
And strangely, for Daphne too.
Not because she had been wronged.
Because consequences had finally become too large for anyone else to carry.
“Where are you?”
“Mom’s.”
“Wyatt?”
“Gone.”
“Brandon?”
“He knows.”
“What did he say?”
“He needs time.”
Reasonable.
Daphne started crying harder.
“I ruined everything.”
Old Charlotte would have said:
No.
You made mistakes.
We’ll fix it.
You’re still my sister.
Instead, I said:
“Yes.”
She went silent.
I softened.
“You did serious damage.”
“Charlotte.”
“I’m not saying your life is over.”
“I’m saying you need to stop describing this like something that happened to you.”
Her breathing shook.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I think so.”
That was more honest.
Then:
“Are you happy?”
I froze.
“What?”
“That I got what I deserved.”
Anger rose.
“No.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
I went toward the window.
“I did not invite Brandon because I wanted your marriage destroyed.”
“Then why?”
“Because I was tired of being forced to protect lies at my own expense.”
Daphne said nothing.
“I wanted my wedding to belong to me.”
My voice tightened.
“You chose it as the place to lock Wyatt emotionally into a pregnancy you knew might not be his.”
She started crying again.
“I was scared.”
“I know.”
“I thought if he saw how happy everyone was—”
“There.”
I closed my eyes.
“That is exactly the problem.”
“What?”
“You keep treating other people’s feelings like tools.”
Silence.
“If Mom is excited enough, she’ll protect you.”
“If Dad is proud enough, he’ll pay.”
“If Wyatt feels publicly attached enough, he’ll stay.”
“If I feel guilty enough, I’ll forgive.”
My throat tightened.
“People are not levers, Daphne.”
She whispered:
“I didn’t think of it like that.”
“I know.”
That was the tragedy.
She had done it her entire life without needing to think.
Then she asked:
“What do I do?”
I almost answered.
Therapy.
Call Wyatt.
Call Brandon.
Apologize.
Give space.
But that would be another version of Charlotte managing Daphne.
So I said:
“You decide.”
She sounded frightened.
“I don’t know how.”
“Then start learning.”
I ended the call ten minutes later.
Lucas found me standing in the kitchen.
He wrapped his arms around my waist.
“Brandon?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.”
I leaned against him.
“I feel terrible.”
“For who?”
“Everyone.”
“That’s allowed.”
“I also feel relieved.”
“That’s allowed too.”
I turned.
“Does that make me horrible?”
“No.”
“Why relief?”
“Because uncertainty is exhausting.”
He kissed my forehead.
“Truth can hurt and still be easier to live with.”
That evening Wyatt texted me.
Result confirmed. I’m filing for separation. Please don’t let your parents pressure you into managing Daphne for them.
I stared.
Lucas read over my shoulder.
“I like him.”
“Bad timing.”
“Still.”
Then another message arrived.
From Dad.
Your mother and I need to tell you something about money. It involves Daphne. And unfortunately, you.
I closed my eyes.
May you like
Of course.
In my family, emotional disasters apparently came with financial attachments.
