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God, I’d do anything for this to be Colton’s baby, to know that it was his DNA growing inside of me. Both of our lives would be so much easier. The thought of still having something of Jude living within me … no. I just can’t.
I take a shaky breath and flip the envelope over before sliding my finger under the seals and slowly ripping it open. Nausea sets in hard, and I throw the envelope to the passenger seat as I scramble for something to throw up in.
I hurl into the empty slurpee container Milo had left in here during the week, and while I was hating on him for leaving a mess behind, I can’t fault him for it now.
I get myself cleaned up with the baby wipes Mom insisted that I start carrying around for these ‘just in case moments,’ and with a cup full of vomit and a disgusted scowl on my face, I get back to learning my fate.
Please be Colton’s. Please be Colton’s. Please be Colton’s.
I wonder if I chant the whole way through and promise my soul to the devil that I could magically manifest what I want to see. It’s a long shot, like a really, really long shot, but it’s definitely worth a try.
My hands begin to shake as I grab the envelope off the passenger’s seat and let out a slow, calming breath. Why did I choose to be alone right now? Maybe it would have been better to just let the doctor deliver the news, that way he could have just ripped it off like a bandaid, and I wouldn’t be sitting here making myself sick with the anxiety.
My fingers slip into the envelope and I feel the papers inside, the ones that are either going to tell me the best news I’ve ever heard or have me wishing for a time machine to send me back to kill Jude before he ever got the chance to touch me.
The papers get stuck on the edge of the envelope, and I accidentally tear the corner off. But my anxiety is riding too high to bother worrying about it. I just hope it’s not the little bit of paper with the actual result on it. Now that would suck.
My fingers can hardly move as I turn the papers over and begin unfolding it. There must be at least ten pages here, and I have a good feeling that I won't understand any of it.
Remembering that I’m supposed to have balls made out of steel, I pull my shit together and realize that the sooner I get this over with, the better.
My gaze drops down to the pages, and I find my name and information at the top. There’s a whole lot of stuff, explaining what the test was for and how to read the attached graphs.
I scan over it all, searching for the one thing I need.
I flip through the pages. There are graphs, charts, everything, but nothing that actually says what I need to see.
I continue flipping the pages until finally, the very last page gives me a report on everything that I just skipped through. There are a whole bunch of numbers that I don’t understand. One column is labeled ‘CHILD’ the other ‘ALLEGED FATHER’ and at the very bottom of the numbers are the results, followed by a detailed explanation.
I begin scanning, my eyes traveling over the words faster than I’ve ever read before.Combined paternity results: 0
Probability of Paternity: 0%
The alleged father is excluded as the biological father. Based on test results obtained by analysis of DNA collected, the probability of paternity is 0%No. no, no, no, no.
This can’t be happening. Colton isn’t the father.
I feel like I’m trapped inside a bad ‘Maury Povich’ episode.
I scan over the results again and again as the tears begin welling in my eyes. They drop furiously down my face, splashing against the papers and smudging the results. It takes three seconds before the painful sobs begin tearing up my throat, and my world starts closing in on me.
Jude is the father.
I have his DNA living inside of me. My child will have his face, his genes, his eyes. That slight bit of hope I’d gotten, telling me that it could have been Colton’s was dangerous because now it only hurts that much more.
I can’t… I can’t do this. How am I supposed to raise a child who came from rape?
Brutal visions of that night slam back into my mind and start overwhelming me, making it difficult to breathe. I need air. I need … I need out. I need this to be over.
I push the car door wide and struggle to breathe as the fresh air flows through the car. Is this a panic attack? I’ve never had one before, but it sure makes sense if it is. I drop my head to the steering wheel and take slow, deep breaths, willing myself to calm down.
