The children were in the living room. Five teenagers—tall, confident, unmistakably Black—laughed over something on a laptop.
He froze.
“They look just like you,” he murmured. “But still…”
I crossed my arms. “Still not yours?”
He swallowed. “I want proof.”
I nodded. I had expected this.
“I already have it,” I said.
I reached into a drawer and placed a thick envelope on the table.
He frowned. “What’s this?”
“Medical records,” I said calmly. “From the hospital. From before the birth. From years ago.”
He opened the envelope, hands trembling.
Then he stopped breathing.
