The next day, I stood on her doorstep with Noah in my arms.
My instincts screamed at me to leave, but grief makes you foolish. It makes you hope where you shouldn’t.
Deborah opened the door smiling.
A real smile.
For a second, I thought maybe grief had softened her. Maybe losing her son had cracked something open.
I stepped inside.
That’s when her smile disappeared.
On the dining table sat a thick folder.
White. Pristine.
With my name printed across the front in bold, black letters.
MIA CARTER.
My heart dropped.
“What’s this?” I asked.
Deborah gestured toward the chair. “Sit.”
I didn’t.
She sighed, annoyed. “It’s a paternity challenge.”
The room tilted.
“You can’t be serious,” I whispered.
She folded her arms. “Caleb was a good man. But men make mistakes. That child—” She nodded toward Noah. “—doesn’t look like my family.”
I laughed. It came out broken. “He’s your son’s baby.”
She slid a document across the table. “Then you won’t mind proving it.”
I looked down.
DNA testing. Custody contingencies. Legal threats.
“And if I refuse?” I asked.
Her eyes hardened. “Then I make sure you leave with nothing.”
Something inside me snapped.
I pulled Caleb’s hoodie tighter around me, looked her dead in the eye, and said, “You already took everything.”
I turned and walked out.
