When I took a look at the nursery, I recalled Emma, my wife, and I picking every single detail together. We had both put so much effort in building that sanctuary for our son, but at that moment, I felt that something about my life wasn’t right.

I found myself standing in that room with a paternity kit in my hands.

There was some suspicion that bothered me, and I needed to be sure although Emma never gave me a reason to suspect her love and loyalty.

“Marcus?” Emma’s voice came from the doorway. “What’s going on? You’ve been distant all week.”

I turned to face her and handed her the test. “I need you to take this.”

She blinked, confused. “What is that?”

“A paternity test,” I said, barely recognizing my own voice and the words coming out of my mouth. “I need to know if he’s mine.”

What followed was a long silence that Emma finally broke by asking, “And what if he’s not?”

I believed that question was sort of a confession, and I became even more certain that the boy could not be mine. “Then we’re done,” I said. “I won’t raise another man’s child.”

Emma took the kit and left the room. She didn’t yell, nor she got mad, and that confused me even more.

The results came five days later. I opened the envelope in my car while my hands trembled.

Probability of paternity: 0%.

Not mine. Not my son.

I couldn’t take a breath at that moment, I just sat there for nearly an hour, reading and rereading the report, waiting for the paper to change its mind. But it didn’t.

When I walked into the house, Emma was feeding the baby. I didn’t have to say anything because she could see it from my face.

“He’s not mine,” I said.

Her eyes closed briefly. “Marcus—”

“I’ve already spoken to a lawyer,” I interrupted. “I’m filing for divorce.”

She just nodded. “You’ve already decided who I am,” she said. “You don’t need the truth anymore.”

I left three days later. Changed my number, moved, told everyone she cheated. People believed me. I believed me.

For three years, I lived convinced I’d done the right thing. I rebuilt my life, got myself a new apartment, new job, new dates. I told myself I’d escaped a lie.