I stop breathing.
Not because I’m shocked my mother had secrets. Not even because I’m looking at proof she betrayed my father.
Because someone followed her long enough to catch all of this.
My father had her watched.
For weeks. Maybe months.
He knew.
My pulse is loud in my ears now, heavy and uneven. I lower the photograph back into the folder and force myself to look underneath it.
There’s a medical document beneath the stack. A paternity test, dated the same day I was born.
For one stupid, disorienting second, my mind snags on the man in the photos. On his dark hair, his height, the impossible shape of hope rising where it has no right to rise. Something inside me reaching for an explanation I never even let myself name.
I stare at the result until the words blur, blink hard, and force myself to focus again.
Probability of paternity: 99.99%.
Anton Kozlov.
My father.
The breath leaves me in a sharp, soundless rush.
Of course he is. The results are clear. Anton Kozlov is my father. The same man who raised me. The same man who looked at me my whole life and made me feel like an obligation he never wanted.
But he tested me.
He tested me because he knew there was reason to ask.
The thought lands like ice water straight down my back. I’m gripping the folder hard enough to crease it. The paper crackles under my fingers.
Under the paternity results is my birth certificate. I’ve never actually seen it. My father kept documents like this locked away, another small piece of my life he controlled by keeping it out of reach.
Everything looks normal. Time of birth, weight, length. Mother’s name. Father’s name. All present, all in order.
I almost put it back.
But there’s another page stuck to it. I peel them apart, and it’s a hospital discharge form.
My mother’s name at the top.
My eyes move down the page once, then again, slower this time.
Discharge date: three days after my birth.
I stare at the line until the words stop making sense. Then they slam into me all at once.
Three days after my birth.
Condition at discharge: stable.
My fingers go numb.
No.
