That evening, a plain envelope waited on the porch. Daniel froze, staring as if it might detonate. His hands trembled as he picked it up, heart pounding so loudly he thought the neighbors could hear. He carried it inside, slipping into the garage to open it alone.
He sat at his workbench, light harsh on the white paper. His hands fumbled the seal. He unfolded the results slowly, eyes scanning for numbers he already dreaded. And then, probability of paternity: 99.9%. Both boys. His sons. His body sagged, relief and disbelief colliding in an almost painful release.