Good gracious, Eleanor, what on earth are you saying? Arthur flung the paper onto the table and pounded his fist on the wooden surface. What’s this talk of an ‘expertise’? Have you quite lost your senses?
Don’t shout at me! Eleanor shot up from the sofa, eyes blazing. I have a right to know the truth! Evelyn looks less like you every single day, and you know it perfectly well.
She *is* my daughter! Arthur shouted. *Our* daughter! And if you bring up this blasted test again, I…
What? Eleanor challenged, planting her hands on her hips. What will you do? Throw me out? Go on then, do it! But first, let’s find out just whose child it is growing up in our house!
Arthur slumped heavily onto a chair and dragged his hands down his face. Their family had never known such a row. Even in the leanest times, they hadn’t descended into shouting and accusations.
Eleanor, whatever has got into you? he asked wearily. Where are these mad notions coming from? Evelyn was born at St Margaret’s; I fetched her from the hospital myself. Don’t you remember?
I remember, his wife hissed through clenched teeth. But that doesn’t answer my questions.
Eleanor went to the sideboard and fetched family photographs. She spread them out on the table before Arthur.
Look, she jabbed a finger at the images. Here’s Evelyn at one. Fair curls, blue eyes. Here at three. Unchanged. And now, at fifteen. Dark, straight hair, brown eyes. Explain that to me.
Children grow, Arthur attempted. They change. It’s her age, hormones…
Hormones don’t change eye colour! Eleanor cut him off. Nor turn curls poker straight! And her height? Fifteen years old and a full head taller than me! Where did that height come from, when you and I are both middling statured?
Arthur stayed silent, examining the photographs. The transformation was indeed stark. The little blonde girl had become a tall, dark-haired young woman with features that seemed somehow… different.
Perhaps she takes after a grandmother, he suggested uncertainly. Or a great-grandmother. Genetics are complicated.
Which grandmother? Eleanor retorted indignantly. My parents were fair, yours too. Great-grandparents all the same. Where did these… other features come from?
Evelyn entered the room. A tall, slender girl with long dark hair and large brown eyes. Lovely, but indeed, bearing little resemblance to her parents.
Why are you shouting? she asked, looking from her father to her mother. The neighbours are complaining already.
It’s nothing, dear, Arthur replied hastily. Mum’s feeling a bit overwrought.
Why? Evelyn perched on the sofa, tucking her legs up. Work trouble again?
Eleanor studied her daughter intently. Calm, considered, utterly unlike her own emotional nature. And so distinctly looking apart.
Evelyn, tell me honestly, Eleanor asked unexpectedly, have you never wondered why you look so different from us?
Mum! Arthur protested.
What? Eleanor turned to her husband. Let her answer. It concerns her too.
Evelyn shrugged.
Dunno. Never thought about it. Does it matter? You’re still my parents.
Of course, dear, Arthur put his arm around the girl. Don’t mind your mother, she’s just having a bad day.
Eleanor watched this scene with resentment. Her husband and daughter understood each other perfectly without words. She felt like an outsider in her own home.
Go do your homework, she told Evelyn. Dad and I need to talk.
Evelyn nodded and left. Arthur watched her go, then turned to his wife.
Why distress her like that? he asked quietly. She’s done nothing wrong.
Then who has? Eleanor sat down opposite him. Arthur, I want the truth. If Evelyn is our child, the test will prove it. And if not…
If not, what? he interrupted. Throw the child onto the street? Stop loving her?
Eleanor fell silent. She truly didn’t know what she would do if her fears were confirmed.
I love her, she admitted. But I need the truth.
Arthur stood and walked to the window. Children played outside; mothers walked with prams. Ordinary life, with no place for such dreadful suspicion.
Eleanor, he asked without turning, what if the truth isn’t what you expect? What then?
I don’t know, she answered honestly. But I cannot live with this uncertainty any longer.
That evening, Arthur lay awake long into the night, reflecting on how drastically their lives had shifted in a single day. That morning, they were an ordinary family. Now…
Beside him, Eleanor shifted restlessly. She was also awake.
Arthur, she whispered. Are you asleep?
No.
Tell me truly, she asked, never once did you suspect?
He paused, then sighed.
I did. But I chased the thoughts away. Evelyn is mine, whatever any test says.
I understand. But I can’t live like this.
At breakfast, Evelyn noticed the tension.
Mum? Dad? Is something wrong? she asked, spreading marmalade on toast.
Just grown-up matters, Arthur answered.
Can I help?
Eleanor looked at her daughter. The open face, the kind eyes. A good child, considerate and well-mannered.
No, love. We’ll manage.
Evelyn finished her tea and left for school, kissing them both goodbye.
See what a fine girl she is? Arthur said. Why are you set on wrecking this?
I’m not wrecking. I need to *know*.
After work, Eleanor visited a private medical clinic offering genetic testing. The consultant explained the procedure and gave her a referral.
We need samples from all three, the woman said. Results in a week.
At home, Eleanor placed the referral on the table.
We’re booked for tomorrow, she announced to her husband. We all go.
Arthur picked up the paper and read it.
Eleanor, I ask you one last time. Are you sure?
Yes.
And if it’s positive? If Evelyn *is* my daughter? Could you look at her the same way afterward?
Eleanor considered. What if her fears were unfounded? Could she bury her doubts?
I could, she answered. Then I would *know*.
That evening, they told Evelyn about the clinic visit.
Why? the girl asked, puzzled. We’re all fine.
Just a check-up, Eleanor said vaguely. Routine.
Evelyn shrugged, accustomed to trusting them without question.
The procedure at the clinic took minutes. A saliva swab for each, and an instruction to return the following Thursday afternoon.
A week of waiting, the nurse said. Results are ready Thursday.
The week crawled by painfully. Eleanor was snappish and sleepless. Arthur tried to act normally, but tension radiated from him. Evelyn, noticing the change, kept her distance, staying often with her best friend, Fiona.
On Thursday, Eleanor took time off to collect the results alone. Arthur remained at work, stating he wasn’t mentally prepared.
She didn’t open the envelope until she got home. She sat clutching it on the long bus ride, knowing their lives could change utterly within minutes.
The house was empty. Evelyn at school. Arthur at his office. Eleanor sat at the kitchen table and tore open the envelope with trembling hands.
She read it once. Twice. Again.
The result was unequivocal: the probability of Arthur’s paternity was 0.01%. Virtually excluded.
Evelyn
Years later, when the shadows of doubt had long faded, they often remarked how the truest families are made not by blood, but by the steadfast choice to love without condition or pause.
