Different versions of myself.
But the same folder.
I had stopped carrying it because I thought Preston would someday ask.
I carried it because I had five children who might someday ask me to prove I had tried.
Preston opened it.
The first document was not the paternity test.
It was a certified copy of a letter.
My letter.
Dated nine years and eleven months earlier.
I watched his eyes move across the page.
He recognized my handwriting immediately.
The original envelope was stapled behind it.
Across the front, in black ink, someone had written:
REFUSED — RETURN TO SENDER.
Preston looked up.
“I never saw this.”
“I know.”
He flipped to the next page.
A letter from his attorney.
The one informing me that he wanted no further direct communication.
Then came the obstetric records.
Five fetuses.
One pregnancy.
Estimated conception date.
A timeline that fell squarely inside our marriage.
Preston sank onto the edge of a stone bench.
“Oh my God.”
Vanessa stepped closer.
“Pregnancy records don’t prove paternity.”
Preston looked up sharply.
I almost admired how quickly she was changing defenses.
