The Daughter Who Isn’t Mine

“What rubbish, Susan!” John slapped the paper onto the table, banging his fist on the wood. “Another test? Have you completely lost your mind?”
“Don’t shout at me!” Sarah jumped off the sofa, eyes blazing with anger. “I have a right to know the truth! Claire looks less like you every day, and you know it!”
“She *is* my daughter!” John shouted. “*Our* daughter! And if you mention that bloody test again, I’ll…”
“What?” Sarah challenged, hands on hips. “What will you do? Throw me out? Go on then! But first, we find out whose daughter is really growing up in this house!”
John sank heavily onto a chair, rubbing his hands over his face. They’d never quarrelled like this before. Even in the toughest times, it hadn’t devolved into shouting and accusations.
“Sarah, what’s got into you?” he asked wearily. “Where’s this nonsense coming from? Claire was born in hospital. *I* collected her from the maternity ward. Don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” his wife hissed through clenched teeth. “But that doesn’t answer anything.”
Sarah walked to the cabinet and pulled out the family photographs. She spread them across the table before her husband.
“Look,” she jabbed her finger at the pictures. “Here’s Claire at one. Fair curls, blue eyes. Here at three. Same. Now, at fifteen. Dark, straight hair, brown eyes. Explain that!”
“Children grow, they change,” John tried to argue. “She’s a teenager, hormones…”
“Hormones don’t change eye colour!” Sarah interrupted. “Or turn curls straight! And her height? Fifteen, and she’s a head taller than me! How? We’re both average height!”
John fell silent, studying the photos. Indeed, the changes were stark. The tiny fair-haired girl had become a tall, dark-haired adolescent with almost Mediterranean features.
“Perhaps she takes after my grandmother,” he suggested uncertainly. “Or my great-grandmother. Genetics are complicated.”
“Which grandmother?” Sarah retorted. “My parents were fair, yours too. Great-grandparents likewise. So where did these features come from?”
Claire walked in. Tall, slender, with long dark hair and large brown eyes. Pretty, but undeniably unlike her parents.
“What’s all the shouting?” she asked, looking between her father and mother. “The neighbours are complaining.”
“Nothing, love,” John answered quickly. “Mum’s just a bit stressed.”
“Why?” Claire sat on the sofa, tucking her legs up. “Work getting on your nerves again?”
Sarah studied her daughter intently. Calm, thoughtful, nothing like her own temperament. And outwardly, a stranger.
“Claire, tell me honestly,” Sarah asked suddenly, “have you ever wondered why you look so different?”
“Susan!” John protested.
“What?” Sarah turned to her husband. “Let her answer. It affects her too.”
Claire shrugged. “Dunno. Never thought about it. Does it matter? You’re my parents.”
“Of course, love,” John hugged the girl. “Don’t mind Mum, she’s just having a bad day.”
Sarah watched them bitterly. Her husband and daughter understood each other perfectly without words. She felt like an outsider in her own family.
“Go do your homework,” she told Claire. “Dad and I need to talk.”
Claire nodded and left. John watched her go, then turned back.
“Why upset her?” he asked quietly. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Then who has?” Sarah sat opposite him. “John, I want the truth. If Claire is ours, the test confirms it. If not…”
“If not, what?” he cut in. “Will you send her packing? Stop loving her?”
Sarah went quiet. She truly didn’t know what she’d do if her suspicions were confirmed.
“I love her,” she admitted. “But I need to know.”
John stood and walked to the window. Outside, children played, parents pushed prams. Ordinary life, with no room for such terrifying doubts.
“Susan,” he asked, not turning, “what if the truth isn’t what you expect? Then what?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “But I can’t live not knowing.”
John lay awake long into the night. Just that morning, they’d been an ordinary family. Now…
Sarah tossed and turned beside him.
“John?” she whispered. “You awake?”
“Yes.”
“Tell the truth. Did you never have doubts?”
He paused, then sighed. “I did. I pushed them away. Claire is mine, whatever the test says.”
“I know. But I can’t live like this.”
Over breakfast, Claire noticed the tension.
“Mum, Dad, what’s wrong?” she asked, spreading butter on her toast.
“Nothing major,” John replied. “Just grown-up problems.”
“Can I help?”
Sarah looked at her daughter. An open face, kind eyes. A good, caring girl.
“No, darling. We’ll sort it.”
Claire finished her tea and left for school, kissing them goodbye.
“See how wonderful she is?” John said. “Why destroy this?”
“I’m not destroying. I’m finding out.”
After work, Sarah visited a medical centre offering genetic testing. The consultant explained the procedure and gave her the forms.
“Samples needed from all three,” the woman said. “Results in a week.”
At home, Sarah placed the form on the table. “I’ve booked for tomorrow. We all go.”
John picked up the paper. “Susan, last chance. Are you sure?”
“Certain.”
“And if it’s positive? If Claire *is* ours? Will you ever look at her the same?”
Sarah paused. What if she was wrong? Could she forget her doubts?
“Yes,” she answered. “Then I’ll know for sure.”
That evening, they told Claire about the appointment.
“Why?” Claire asked, puzzled. “We’re healthy.”
“Just precautionary tests,” Sarah said vaguely.
Claire shrugged, trusting them implicitly.
At the centre, the procedure took minutes. Saliva samples were taken from each.
“A week’s wait,” the nurse advised. “Results Thursday afternoon.”
The week crawled. Sarah grew snappy and sleepless. John tried to act normal, but tension radiated from him.
Claire noticed, but kept quiet, staying often at her friend’s.
On Thursday, Sarah took time off and collected the results alone. John stayed at work, unable to face it.
She clutched the envelope unopened all the way home. She sat on the bus, dreading how their life would change.
The house was empty. Claire at school, John at work. Sarah sat at the kitchen table, hands trembling, and tore it open.
She read it once. Twice. Again.
The result was unequivocal: Likelihood of John’s paternity was 0.01%. Practically impossible.
Claire was not his daughter.
Sarah dropped the paper and wept. Not from relief at being right. Nor from grief. Just because their family life had ended in the instant she read those figures.
John came home late. He saw his wife at the table, the papers, and understood.
“Well?” he asked softly.
“You’re not her father,” Sarah replied just as softly.
John sat down and picked up the report. He read it slowly, though it was brief.
“What now?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Claire? Does she know?”
“Not yet. She came home, had supper, went to her room. Doing homework.”
They sat in silence, each lost in thought. Sarah imagined telling her daughter this dad wasn’t
Their shared journey had illuminated the profound truth that family roots grow deepest not from the soil of biology but from the nurturing waters of unwavering devotion.