I closed the laptop and handed it back to DeAndre. I ordered him to archive every single post, every comment, and every digital footprint Derek created. I did not post a rebuttal. I did not call my friends to cry or explain myself.
I maintained absolute, terrifying radio silence. In psychological warfare, an enemy who expects heavy resistance will eventually panic when met with a total vacuum. Derek was shadowboxing in an empty ring, exhausting his own credibility while I gathered the decisive ammunition required to obliterate his life. Let him play the wounded victim for his wealthy audience.
The court of public opinion meant absolutely nothing compared to a federal judge. Two tense days later, my secure mobile device received an encrypted notification from the base medical commander. The results were finalized. I left Lily safely with DeAndre at the hotel and drove back to the base, my knuckles white against the steering wheel.
I sat in the sterile, brightly lit office of the chief medical officer as he handed me a sealed, tamper evident envelope. I broke the heavy seal and pulled out the certified laboratory report. My eyes automatically bypassed the complex scientific jargon and darted straight to the summary conclusions at the bottom of the page. The first line brought a massive, grounding wave of relief.
The maternal probability was absolute. I was unquestionably Lily’s biological mother. I had carried her, I had birthed her, and she was mine. But the second line of the report made all the breath completely leave my lungs.
The military system had run Derek’s genetic profile, which was already on file from his base access passes, against Lily’s DNA. The paternal match was not zero, which would have indicated a random, anonymous sperm donor from a standard fertility clinic. The system had flagged a highly specific genetic anomaly. The shared DNA between Derek and my daughter was exactly twenty five percent.
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