“I used it,” she continued. “They said it could still work. I wanted it to be a surprise… our miracle. I didn’t know about your surgery.”
The room fell silent.
“Are you saying… he’s mine?” Ethan whispered.
“He’s our son,” Rachel said, dropping to her knees. “He always has been.”
Ethan pulled out his phone, staring again at the result.
0.00%.
Then he noticed something he had ignored before—a small note at the bottom:
“Non-standard samples may produce false negatives if contaminated.”
The pacifier.
