He wanted a test, but got loneliness instead.
Bethany waited impatiently for her husband to return from work. She’d fried his favorite potato fritters for supper, filling the kitchen with a warm, greasy haze. When the door creaked open, she met him with a hopeful smile.
“Hello! Fancy some supper?”
James sat in silence, staring past the steaming plate. Bethany’s smile faltered.
“Something wrong? You seem miles away…”
The quiet stretched, unbearable, until—
“I need a test.”
“What test, Jamie? What are you on about?”
His answer struck like lightning on a cloudless day—a paternity test. Bethany’s ears rang. This man, who’d shared her joys and sorrows for years, doubted her? Demanded proof?
“Are you serious?”
“What’s the fuss? If you’ve got nothing to hide—why so jumpy?”
Each word cut deeper than the last. Memories rushed back—how they’d met as teenagers, starry-eyed and reckless, married within a year. Her strict upbringing had forbidden anything improper before the wedding, a fact that once flattered James, coming from a looser, messier home. His mother and brother, both scarred by their own dramas, had warned him—love was just heartbreak in disguise. He hadn’t listened.
When Bethany fell pregnant, James was over the moon. But the pregnancy was rough—bed rest, doctor’s orders, endless exhaustion. Their daughter, Imogen, arrived strong and pink-cheeked. James hovered over the cradle, murmuring,
“Your hair, her nose… and those eyes—definitely mine!”
Then his mother visited. She inspected the baby, lips pursed, before declaring,
“Not one of ours.” Then she left without so much as a cuddle.
Bethany dismissed it—until now. That moment had planted the seed. Soon, James grew distant, shrugging off fatherhood, drowning in excuses.
When she finally snapped—”What’s wrong with you?”—he snarled about work. But weeks later, he spat it out:
“Look at Imogen. She doesn’t look like either of us. You sure she’s even mine?”
Bethany shattered. “I’ve never betrayed you!”
“Prove it then. Unless you’re hiding something.”
The fight exploded. James stormed out, slamming the door. Shaking, Bethany called her mum.
“Mum, come get me… I can’t stay here.”
Within the hour, her parents arrived, packing her bags in grim silence. Back home, once Imogen slept, her father whispered,
“I never trusted that lot. Told you, didn’t I?”
Her mother nodded. “A man who needs proof isn’t a husband—he’s a threat. We’ve got you, love. We’ll manage.”
Bethany’s decision was made. If trust was gone, so was he. Later, James accused her:
“Running off proves it! Scared the test will expose you?”
But Bethany turned the tables. On her solicitor’s advice, she filed to strip James of parental rights—he wanted proof? He’d get it. His cruelty would be evidence enough.
His mother crowed, “Told you so!”—until the results came. James *was* the father. His mother screamed conspiracy, but the court wasn’t swayed.
Bethany won. James’s name was scrubbed from Imogen’s life.
“You wanted this. Now go please your mum. No granddaughter, no daughter—just you. You and your brother, both cut from the same rotten cloth.”
James slumped on the courthouse steps, face buried in his hands. Too late, he understood—his distrust had burned everything. His family, love, child—gone.
But the clock doesn’t tick backward. Some mistakes stay mistakes.