“Did I ever tell you about my friend Sharon’s son?” Linda continued, settling into the rocking chair like she owned it. “Poor thing found out after twenty years that his wife had been lying about their children. DNA tests proved they weren’t even his. Can you imagine?”
“No, Linda, I can’t imagine,” I replied flatly. “Just like I can’t imagine why you keep bringing up stories like this.”
That night, after she finally left, I found myself checking Noah’s room.
Something felt off. Call it maternal instinct or just years of dealing with Linda’s schemes, but I knew she’d done something.
I searched through the drawers, checked under the crib, and finally decided to empty the trash bin.
That’s when I found something that sent a shiver down my spine. An empty DNA test kit box.
My hands trembled as I picked it up. I couldn’t believe that Linda had actually done it. She’d taken a DNA sample from my son without my knowledge or consent. How dare she?
I could have confronted her immediately. Could have called Eric in Antarctica. But I didn’t. Because unlike Linda, I knew exactly who Noah’s father was. And more importantly, I wanted Eric to deal with this himself.
So, I waited.
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