“You’re delusional,” I said. “You were never pregnant.”
“Then prove it,” Lydia said. “Take the test.”
David and I exchanged a glance.
If we refused, it would look suspicious. It would give her story oxygen.
If we agreed, we walked right into whatever she’d built.
But we had no choice.
“Fine,” I said. “We’ll do it. And when it proves you’re lying, we’re pressing charges and getting a restraining order.”
Stuart slid paperwork across the table. “Testing will be done at Metagen Genetics. Independent lab. Results in three to five business days. All parties agree to accept results as definitive proof of biological parentage.”
My stomach turned. Something about how quickly this was arranged, how ready they were, how confident Lydia looked—it all screamed preplanned.
But I signed.
David signed.
Lydia signed with a steady hand like she was signing a lunch order.
We scheduled the test for the next morning.
As we left the conference room, Lydia called softly, “Vanessa.”
I turned.
She smiled again—small, satisfied.
“Try not to make Oliver hate you,” she said.
The cruelty of it made my vision blur with rage.
I walked out without responding, because if I spoke, I didn’t trust what would come out.
That night, after Oliver was asleep, David and I sat on the couch in the dim living room like two people waiting for a storm to hit.
“This doesn’t make sense,” I said, voice low. “Why would Lydia do this? She has to know the DNA test will prove she’s not Oliver’s mother.”
David rubbed his temples. “Lydia’s always been… intense. Maybe she’s having a breakdown.”
“No,” I said immediately. “She’s too organized. The forged birth certificate. The medical records. The lawyer. She came to the school in person. This took planning.”
David looked at me. “What are you saying?”
I hesitated, then forced the words out. “What if she’s found a way to rig the test?”
David stared. “Vanessa, you can’t fake a DNA test.”
“Yes, you can,” I said, grabbing my laptop. My fingers flew across the keyboard with adrenaline-fueled clarity. “It’s rare. But lab corruption happens. Sample switching happens.”
I pulled up an article about falsified paternity results—bribed technicians, swapped labels, compromised chain of custody.
Then another.
Then I typed Metagen Genetics into the search bar.
My stomach dropped.
Three years ago, Metagen had a scandal. A technician caught falsifying paternity results for money. Fired. “New security measures implemented.” Damage control. PR language.
David leaned toward the screen, jaw tight. “Oh my God.”
“If Lydia knows someone there,” I whispered, “if she paid someone… she could manufacture proof. A judge might grant her temporary custody while things are investigated. Oliver could be taken from us, legally, because of a falsified report.”
David’s face went pale. “We can’t refuse the test.”
“I know,” I said. “So we don’t. We do two tests.”
He blinked. “Two?”
“We do Metagen, because we have to,” I said. “But we also do our own test at a different lab, one we choose, immediately after. If Metagen is compromised, we’ll have independent proof.”
David nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll arrange it.”
My hands shook as I reached for Oliver’s baby album on the shelf, like I needed to see his hospital photos again to anchor myself to reality.
Lydia couldn’t take this from me.
She couldn’t rewrite my body, my labor, my pain.
