My hands shook so violently I thought I'd drop the envelope.
Every cell in my body screamed, urging me not to open it, to live in blissful ignorance a little longer.
But the seed of doubt, planted months ago, had grown into a monstrous tree, its roots constricting my heart.
It all started so innocently, with Mark and David.
They were inseparable, had been since high school, the kind of bond you envy.
David was more than just Mark's best friend; he was practically family, always at our dinner table, the first to offer help.
When Mark proposed, there was no question David would be his best man.
Our wedding was beautiful, a dream come true, with David right there by Mark’s side, beaming.
Then came the pregnancy, a joyous surprise that filled our lives with light and anticipation.
Mark was over the moon, constantly talking to my growing belly, planning the nursery.
David was equally excited, always bringing little gifts, joking about being "Uncle David."
But as our baby boy grew, tiny details began to surface.
A dimple just like David's.
A way of scrunching his nose that was undeniably familiar.
I dismissed it, pushed it away, told myself I was being paranoid, seeing things that weren't there.
Mark was so proud, so certain of his son, and I couldn't bear to shatter his happiness, or my own.
The whispers in my mind, however, grew louder, more insistent, especially late at night when Mark was asleep beside me.
Then, at a family gathering, Mark’s aunt, meaning no harm, remarked, "He looks just like David did as a baby, doesn't he?"
Her words, innocent as they were, hit me like a physical blow.
Suddenly, memories flooded back, of a night nearly a year and a half ago.
Mark had been out of town on a last-minute business trip, and I was feeling lonely, a little down.
David had shown up with takeout, just wanting to cheer me up, he said.
We had a few too many drinks, laughed too hard, and one thing led to another.
It was a blur, a mistake, a moment of weakness I had instantly regretted and buried deep.
I convinced myself it meant nothing, that it couldn't have resulted in anything, that it was impossible.
But now, staring at my baby’s face, at the dimple, at the tiny nose, "impossible" felt like a cruel joke.
The guilt was a constant ache, but the fear of the unknown was worse.
I had to know.
I ordered the paternity test discreetly, heart pounding every time my phone buzzed, terrified Mark would find out.
The waiting period was agony, each day a slow torture of what-ifs and self-recrimination.
I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, watching Mark interact with our son, a knot forming in my stomach.
