Now, though, I'd heard that conversation with my own ears.
And suddenly, I couldn't bring myself to look this child in the eye—this child I'd raised with my own hands.
I pretended to pick something off his head and plucked two strands of his hair.
I called a same-day courier and sent the hair samples to two different paternity testing centers.
Rush orders. Both of them.
The wait was agonizing.
The moment the results came in, every nerve in my body pulled taut. My heart hammered without rhythm.
I opened the electronic report.
Skipped past everything else. Went straight to the last page.
Based on DNA analysis, the probability of excluding Julian Gilbert as the biological father of the submitted Alvin Gilbert is 99.99%.
Two reports. Same result.
"Ha... haha..."
A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my throat.
Five years.
One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days.
I had poured everything I had into Louise, into Alvin, into this family—every ounce of devotion, every shred of effort I possessed.
And in the end, I was nothing but a fool who'd spent five years raising another man's son.
Bill was right.
I was a goddamn idiot.
Raising someone else's kid and feeling proud of myself for it.
There probably wasn't a bigger fool on the face of the earth.
I wondered how Louise and Bill laughed about me behind closed doors.
Rage. Humiliation. Bitter refusal to accept it—all of it crashed together inside my chest.
My fists clenched until my knuckles went white.
It took every ounce of strength I had to keep the all-consuming rage from tearing its way out.
I pulled out my phone and dialed.
"Attorney Matthews, I need you to prepare a divorce agreement."
I ignored his shock on the other end and calmly told him to make it fast.
Louise didn't come home that night.
The next morning, I was jolted awake by my phone ringing. I glanced at the caller ID and let a cold smile curl across my lips.
"Gilbert, you have ten minutes. Get your ass to the hospital—now!"
The second the call connected, Ann Sullivan's shrill voice sliced through the speaker. The same imperious tone she always used—a command, never a request.
Before I could respond, she hung up.
I let out a quiet, mirthless laugh.
So. They were holding court. And I was the one on trial.
I washed up, got in the car, and drove to the hospital.