The PDF report remained open.
His hands shook so violently he nearly dropped the laptop.
The words refused to make sense.
Probability of paternity: 0.00%.
The child was not his.
His chest tightened.
For several minutes he simply sat in silence, listening to the ticking clock in the kitchen.
No tears came.
No anger.
Only confusion.
Because nothing fit.
Ximena had never given him a reason to doubt her.
Not once.
Not during eight years of marriage.
Not during the endless doctor visits.
Not during the miscarriages.
Not during the nights she cried herself to sleep after losing another baby.
Yet science was science.
The report was clear.
The child wasn’t his.
Santiago closed the laptop and looked toward the bedroom where Ximena slept beside their newborn son.
For the first time in his life, he felt like a stranger inside his own home.
The next morning, Ximena smiled at him over breakfast.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m just tired.”
She walked over and kissed his forehead.
The gesture nearly broke him.
Guilt crushed his lungs.
He was secretly investigating the woman he loved more than his own life.
For the next three weeks, Santiago became obsessed.
He checked bank records.
Phone logs.
Messages.
Social media accounts.
Nothing.
Not a single suspicious detail.
If Ximena was having an affair, she was the greatest liar on earth.
Then another question emerged.
A far worse question.
What if the lab had made a mistake?
The possibility consumed him.
He ordered a second test through another laboratory.
This time he collected samples personally.
He watched every step.
He verified every label.
He triple-checked every document.
Two weeks later, the result arrived.
Again.
0.00%.
The baby was not his biological child.
The room spun around him.
That night he sat alone in his car outside a church.
Rain tapped against the windshield.
For hours he stared at the illuminated cross above the entrance.
He wanted answers.
He wanted certainty.
Instead, he felt only dread.
Eventually he returned home.
As he entered the nursery, he found Ximena asleep in the rocking chair.
The baby rested peacefully against her chest.
Moonlight spilled across them.
For a moment they looked like a painting.
A perfect family.
A perfect lie.
Something inside him finally snapped.
“Ximena.”
She woke immediately.
“Santi?”
His voice trembled.
“I need you to tell me the truth.”
Her face paled.
“What happened?”
He handed her both DNA reports.
The color drained from her cheeks.
Silence filled the room.
Several seconds passed.
Then she looked up.
And to Santiago’s complete shock…
she started crying before reading a single page.
Not confusion.
Not surprise.
Fear.
Pure terror.
The realization hit him like a truck.
She already knew.
“You knew,” he whispered.
Ximena covered her mouth.
“No…”
“You knew.”
“Santiago, please—”
“You knew.”
The baby stirred between them.
Ximena began shaking uncontrollably.
Then she whispered words that made his blood freeze.
“I’ve been afraid of this day for years.”
Years.
Not months.
Years.
Santiago stared at her.
“What are you talking about?”
Ximena lowered her eyes.
“When I was nineteen, something happened.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
“My parents never knew.”
Her voice cracked.
“I never told anyone.”
Santiago sat down slowly.
A knot formed in his stomach.
Ximena looked as though she were reliving a nightmare.
“When I was in university, I volunteered at a children’s hospital.”
Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“One evening I stayed late.”
Her breathing became uneven.
