His mother, Carol, was sitting in the corner with a coffee cup in both hands. She went completely still.
Mark cleared his throat. “I said I want a DNA test. That baby might not be mine.”
The room became so quiet I could hear Lily breathing.
My nurse, Dana, froze near the monitor. Even she looked at him like he had slapped me.
I stared at the man I had been married to for four years. The man who had held my hand during prenatal appointments. The man who painted the nursery yellow and cried when we heard the heartbeat for the first time.
“You’re saying this now?” I whispered.
Mark’s jaw tightened. “I’m saying I deserve to know the truth.”
Something inside me broke, but it did not collapse. It hardened.
Carol suddenly stood up. “Mark, stop.”
He turned sharply. “No, Mom. I’m not raising another man’s baby.”
I looked down at Lily. Her tiny fingers curled around mine. I had never felt more tired in my life, but my mind became terrifyingly clear.
“Fine,” I said.
Mark looked almost relieved.
Then, right in front of him, I picked up my phone and called my attorney, Rachel Bennett. She had helped me with my business contracts before.
When Rachel answered, I said, “Prepare the divorce papers.”
Mark’s face drained.
But Carol’s face turned even paler.
Thirty minutes after giving birth, I expected my husband to
