Chapter 2 - A PATERNITY REPORT IN THE NIGHTI pulled up abruptly to the curb, leaving the engine running as I sprinted through the automatic glass doors. The overpowering scent of antiseptic hit my nose. In the busy waiting hall, Grace was frantically standing at the triage desk. She held the youngest girl—who was drifting out of consciousness with a burning fever—while the other two children dutifully clutched her coat hem.
"I need to see Dr. Vance! Please, Chloe's condition is deteriorating rapidly!" Grace’s voice cracked with terror.
The triage nurse looked at her screen and shook her head. "Ms. Miller, Chloe’s file is flagged red, but Dr. Vance is currently in emergency surgery. Furthermore, specialized treatment requires a genetic match report from the biological father. Have you filled in the father's information?"
Grace froze. Her hands clenched tightly around the thin blanket wrapped around her child. "I... I can't reach the father. Please, use my blood!"
"I'm sorry, a maternal sample is insufficient for this protocol," the nurse said firmly.
I stepped forward, my footsteps heavy. "Use my blood."
Grace gasped, spinning around as if she had seen a ghost. Fierce anger flared in her eyes. "Ryan? What are you doing here? Go away! This is no place for you!"
"Grace, look at me!" I grabbed her shoulders, trying to keep my voice steady. "The child is in danger. How long were you planning to keep this from me?"
"They have nothing to do with you!" She shoved my hands away, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. "You chose your job, your family, and your future three years ago! Stay out of our lives!"
As Grace tried to push me back, little Leo stepped forward to protect his mother, clutching her coat. His red raincoat brushed against my sleeve. As I stepped back, I noticed a few small strands of dark brown curly hair caught on my suit cuff—Leo's hair.
I didn't argue further. Stepping into a quiet corner of the hallway, I carefully placed the hair strands into a clean medical sample bag. I called the Chief of Pathology at Chicago University Hospital—a close friend of mine.
"David, I need an urgent DNA test. Money is no object. I want the results before dawn."
Half an hour later, a courier picked up the sample. When I returned to the waiting area, Grace and the children were gone.
At 3:15 AM, sitting in my car parked in the freezing hospital courtyard, my phone buzzed with a notification. David had sent a PDF. My hands shook as I opened it. Complex genetic charts filled the pages, and on the final page, bold black letters stood out starkly:
PROBABILITY OF PATERNITY: 99.99%.
All three children—Leo, Maya, and Chloe—were mine.
I collapsed against the steering wheel, a sharp pang tearing through my chest. I had been a father to three children for three years without ever knowing it. But the fleeting surge of joy crumbled when I read the small clinical note attached to Chloe's medical file, which I had just pulled:
May you like
Patient: Chloe Miller. Preliminary Diagnosis: Severe Bone Marrow Failure. Urgent transplant required.
An icy chill ran down my spine. Bone marrow failure... This was the exact hereditary disease that had claimed the life of my cousin when he was only five years old.
Related Stories
