My wife cheated on me, and my son wasn’t mine. She confessed this bluntly on our wedding night. But then, by some bizarre twist of fate, I discovered that my son shared my extremely rare blood type: Rh-negative. Behind my wife’s back, I secretly took a paternity test. The results floored me: a 99.99% DNA match. Andrew was related to me, without a doubt. But if he wasn’t my son, who was his “real” father? My mind raced, my stomach twisted. Could it be… A horrible thought crept into my mind, leaving me sickened. “Is this Simon Swift, Andrew Swift’s father?” The call came in abruptly, shattering my morning peace. “This is Children’s Hospital. Your son had an accident at school. He fell, hit his head, and lost a lot of blood. He urgently needs a transfusion. “Please come immediately.” I glanced at the clock. It was 10 AM, and annoyance quickly overtook concern. It wasn’t worry or even anger, but irritation. “You should call his mother,” I said coldly. “Besides, I’m Rh-negative. What good is calling me? Doesn’t your hospital have a blood bank?” I was ready to end the call when I noticed Roger, my driver, shooting me a stunned, judgmental glance. I could read his thoughts clearly. What kind of father would respond so callously to news that his son was hurt? Yet the truth was simple. Andrew wasn’t my son. Beatrice Moore, my wife, had been three months pregnant when we met. She married me carrying another man’s child, and I accepted it. I was nothing but a pathetic stand-in. “What kind of father are you?” The doctor’s voice on the line grew sharper, thick with frustration. “If our blood bank had his type, why would we call you? “We’ve already tested Andrew. He’s Rh-negative, exactly like you. Get here now!” The call ended abruptly, leaving me frozen in disbelief. Andrew had Rh-negative blood too? How could that possibly be just a coincidence? Roger cleared his throat gently. “Simon, he’s just a kid. Kids get hurt. It’s part of growing up. “Maybe you’ve been a bit strict with him, but right now, you really should focus on his health.” “I’m not his father!” I blurted out, louder than intended. Immediately regretting it, I lowered my voice. “Sorry, Roger. I didn’t mean to snap. Let’s just… get to the hospital.” After the transfusion, Andrew drifted into sleep. For the first time, I found myself truly studying his face, startled by the striking resemblance I saw there. Roger stepped beside me quietly, his voice low but sincere. “Simon, you can’t deny it. Andrew looks exactly like you.” A sudden panic surged through me. I turned to the doctor urgently. “Can you perform a paternity test here?” The doctor gave me a puzzled look. “Isn’t your shared blood type enough proof?” “That’s not enough. Just tell me, can you do it or not?” “We can’t run it here,” he replied slowly, still eyeing me skeptically. “But we can send the samples to the central hospital downtown. Results take three days.” Without hesitation, I rolled up my sleeve. “Do you need blood or hair? Let’s do this right now.” I watched intently as they took our samples and sealed them away. Only then did Beatrice arrive, eyes swollen and red, her cheeks still streaked from recent tears. Teachers and school officials immediately crowded around her, apologizing and comforting. I merely shot her an icy glare, turned to Roger, and said, “Let’s go.” It was lunchtime when we left the hospital. Feeling restless and needing something stronger than cafeteria food, I asked Roger to join me at a restaurant. The moment the alcohol arrived, I poured myself a glass and knocked it back. Anyone could tell that I was trying to drown my confusion. “Simon, slow down,” Roger said cautiously. “You’re going to hurt yourself drinking like that.” He paused, carefully selecting his next words. “Are you absolutely sure Andrew isn’t yours? Because this blood thing… it’s awfully strange.”
But it wasn’t just the blood type. Today, as I truly studied Andrew’s face for the first time, an unsettling feeling took root deep inside me. Panic crept through my veins, making my skin crawl. Beatrice and I had been set up by our families. At first, I liked her well enough. Everything moved fast; our families agreed, and my mother didn’t hesitate to hand over the dowry. The wedding was arranged hastily, just two weeks after our initial meeting. It was a classic shotgun wedding scenario. Then, just days before the ceremony, Beatrice confessed that she was already three months pregnant. The news hit me like a thunderclap, turning my world upside down. For days before the wedding, I drank myself into oblivion, tortured by indecision. In the end, I decided to bury the truth and marry her anyway. It was not out of love, but because my mother had just been diagnosed with cervical cancer. I couldn’t risk breaking her heart. From then on, I treated Beatrice with cold indifference. After Andrew was born, I never held him or played with him. His existence mocked my pride as a man. Hearing him call me “Daddy” only sharpened the blade twisting in my chest. Now he was three years old, already attending preschool, and yet I had never taken him to a playground or tossed a ball with him. Whenever he approached me, especially if I’d been drinking, I’d snap at him harshly, sending him running away in fear. Andrew grew up wary and distant, a child who didn’t know his own father. And I never felt a shred of remorse. He wasn’t mine, so he wasn’t my burden. Frankly, I often considered myself generous just to tolerate his presence. Andrew was a permanent stain on my life, a humiliating reminder of my cowardice. The fact that I hadn’t mistreated him physically felt like kindness enough. But today, all my comfortable lies were collapsing around me. Anxiety gnawed at my thoughts. If Andrew wasn’t mine, why did he share my blood type? Why did he look so unmistakably like me? Three days flew by quickly. Andrew was already discharged; it was just a small injury after all, needing only three stitches. During these three days, I didn’t once inquire about his recovery, nor did Beatrice bother updating me. This was our life and normality, coexisting like tenants in the same house, separate lives carefully never intersecting. The moment I left work, I went straight to the hospital to pick up the test results. I brought Roger along. Among all my coworkers, Roger knew me best since he drove me around every day. Besides, he knew about the test. I brought him also because I panicked and didn’t dare to face the result alone. When the nurse handed me the sealed envelope, I didn’t open it immediately. Instead, Roger and I headed to a nearby diner. Only once we’d ordered and sat down did I break the seal, hands shaking slightly from nerves. Roger leaned over eagerly as I unfolded the paper. The moment he saw the result, his face split into a wide, congratulatory grin. But my reaction was the opposite. My heart jolted in my chest, cold dread surging up my spine. I stared in stunned disbelief at the unmistakable words: Probability of paternity: Greater than 99.99%. Andrew was absolutely, undeniably, my biological son. Yet, that result, rather than bringing comfort, slammed into me with sickening force. It was impossible and unacceptable. My head spun violently, leaving me disoriented, breathless, and dazed. My voice shook as I muttered numbly, “No… no, this can’t be right. Where…where the hell did things go wrong?”
“See? Clear as day. There’s no mistake.” Roger grinned widely, practically glowing as though he were the proud father himself. “Simon, stop torturing yourself. Andrew looks exactly like you. Same blood type, and now even a DNA test. What more proof do you need?” “I told you, he’s not mine. He can’t possibly be mine,” I insisted firmly, my expression hardening. “Beatrice and I met through a blind date arranged by our families. We got married two weeks later, and we barely knew each other. “Just a few days before our wedding, she admitted to me that she was already three months pregnant.” “And the timeline proves it,” I continued bitterly. “Andrew was born only seven months after our wedding. “We told everyone he was premature, but he was full-term.” Roger’s jaw dropped open, eyes widening. It was clear his brain was spinning as fast as mine had been earlier. Several long, awkward minutes passed before he finally gathered the nerve to speak again, his voice hesitant. “Simon, are you absolutely sure you didn’t know her…from before?” “You mean, could I have dated her earlier, gotten her pregnant, and forgotten about it?” I shot Roger a sharp look. “Tell me honestly, would you completely forget someone you were involved with just three months earlier?” Without waiting for a response, I stood up abruptly. “There’s got to be a mistake. I’m getting another test.” “Hold on,” Roger grabbed my sleeve. “Simon, please don’t get mad at what I’m about to say.” “Look,” he added cautiously, lowering his voice as if delivering a hard truth. “Is it possible the issue isn’t the test itself? Think about it: Andrew looks just like you, and you share the same rare blood type. You personally watched them seal the samples. The chance of error here is practically zero. “And since you’re positive Beatrice was already pregnant before meeting you… Is there any chance Andrew might be your brother’s child?” I understood immediately what he was implying, but that was also impossible. Putting aside the scientific fact that a nephew and his uncle would never match at a near-perfect 99.99%, there was a much simpler reason. “I don’t have any brothers,” I said flatly. “Only a sister.” Roger blinked in surprise, quickly shifting gears. “Oh…no brothers. Then what about your d…” He caught himself mid-sentence, his face reddening in embarrassment. He’d clearly crossed a line. “My dad passed away eight years ago,” I said, shooting him a pointed look. “I’m so sorry, Simon. I-I didn’t mean it that way,” Roger stammered, waving his hands frantically in apology. After a tense silence, he awkwardly cleared his throat. “Well, in that case, I can only think of one other explanation. “Simon, have you ever heard of the multiverse theory? You know, alternate dimensions, parallel universes… “Maybe Andrew isn’t your kid… But maybe another Simon from some parallel universe crossed over and…” I stared at him, speechless. Was he serious? Clearly, he’d spent too many late nights reading ridiculous sci-fi novels. I turned my head slightly, noticing the diners at the next table quietly picking up their plates and moving to seats further away. The looks they cast our way spoke volumes: they clearly thought we’d both lost our minds.
I didn’t respond, choosing instead to frown deeply and bury my frustrations in the bottom of my glass. Roger, however, was still riding the high of his bizarre theories, each new speculation wilder than the last. “Simon, uh…in the months before the wedding, did you ever visit any…questionable establishments? You know, sometimes mistakes happen…” He coughed awkwardly. “Protection is always key. If you slipped up, maybe one of those girls could’ve ended up pregnant, and then…” He quickly raised his hands in surrender as my glare hardened. “Okay, fine, let’s try another angle. “Have you watched any romance dramas? I’m sure you had more than one girlfriend before getting married, right? “Maybe you had an ex who wasn’t over you, went abroad, got plastic surgery, and reinvented herself as Beatrice? “Or… wait, wait! Simon, have you ever donated…um, DNA samples?” I could only stare at him, utterly speechless. Roger’s imagination was truly astounding, absurd to the point of exhaustion. He finally got the hint from my murderous expression and shut his mouth. But as ridiculous as his ideas sounded, he wasn’t entirely wrong to grasp at straws. Still, none of these scenarios applied to me. I might not have been some paragon of virtue, but I’d never been one to sleep around. As for past relationships, sure, I had dated three women seriously before marriage. But none had mysteriously vanished or undergone surgery to reemerge as Beatrice. And donating DNA? My thinking had never been that progressive. The truth was, no matter how hard I racked my brain, nothing made sense. If I couldn’t find the answers, Roger’s random guessing certainly wouldn’t help. In short, the situation had me completely baffled. Since I couldn’t unravel this myself, I decided the only way forward was to confront Beatrice directly. When I returned home, she was busy putting Andrew to bed. Only after he was asleep did I emerge from the study. Beatrice seemed to sense something was up and joined me quietly on the sofa. I looked at her, my voice cold and direct. “Who is Andrew’s real father? You’ve never once mentioned him.” She raised an eyebrow. “Since when have you ever cared about Andrew? Nearly four years married, and suddenly, you’re interested?” I couldn’t shake the feeling she was mocking me, enjoying some private joke at my expense. Her voice hardened, a bitter edge creeping in. “His father’s a worthless scumbag who deserves every awful thing coming to him.” In the past, hearing that would have offered me a twisted comfort. Now, with that DNA test burning a hole in my pocket, it felt like a deliberate insult, like she was throwing those words directly at me. “You’re not answering my question,” I snapped impatiently. “I want a straight answer. At the hospital the other day, I gave him blood. Maybe you don’t know this, but I’m Rh-negative. And guess what? Andrew has the exact same rare blood type. “And lately, everyone’s been saying how much Andrew looks like me, as if he’s practically my clone.” As I spoke, understanding flickered in her eyes. She looked at me strangely for a moment before breaking into a self-mocking chuckle. “Wait…you don’t actually think Andrew’s yours, do you? Didn’t I clearly tell you before our wedding that I was already three months pregnant?” “Then explain this!” My patience snapped completely. I pulled out the DNA test results, slamming them onto the table between us. “Simon, you secretly ran a paternity test on Andrew without even telling me? What the hell were you thinking?” Beatrice snatched the test results off the table, her expression instantly shifting.
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