The testing appointment was scheduled for the following Tuesday.
Claire insisted on attending.
I almost laughed when she said it.
“You don't need to supervise a cheek swab.”
“I want everything handled properly.”
“You mean you want to watch.”
Her expression hardened.
“If you're so confident, why are you nervous?”
I wasn't sure whether I was nervous about the result or about the fact that she seemed so certain there would be something to discover.
That distinction followed me all weekend.
I went through old photographs.
I hadn't planned to.
I told myself I was looking for a picture for the memorial album, but after midnight I was sitting on my bedroom floor surrounded by boxes.
There was my father holding me on my fourth birthday.
My father teaching me to ride a bicycle.
My father standing beside me at a school awards ceremony, looking prouder than I had ever seen him look at himself.
There were photographs of Claire too.
Our childhoods overlapped, but they had never been identical.
She had been the outgoing one. I had been quieter. Claire liked attention, parties, expensive clothes, and being the person everyone noticed when she entered a room.
I preferred my father's workshop.
He used to let me sit on a stool while he repaired machinery and explained how every piece worked.
“You have patience,” he'd once told me.
I remembered laughing.
“I don't.”
“You do. You just don't have patience for people who waste your time.”
At the time, I thought it was a joke.
That night, it felt like a warning from another life.
I found one photograph I had never noticed before.
My father stood beside my mother at a summer barbecue. I was a toddler in his arms.
His hand rested beneath my back.
The date was written on the back in his handwriting.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then I turned the photograph over again.
There was nothing unusual about it.
And yet I couldn't stop looking.
On Tuesday morning, the laboratory was quiet.
Claire arrived ten minutes early.
She wore a cream coat and carried a leather folder beneath her arm.
“You brought paperwork?”
“I'm being careful.”
“You're being theatrical.”
Her jaw tightened.
The technician called our names.
I sat first.
A sterile swab passed along the inside of my cheek.
That was all.
No dramatic moment.
No revelation.
Just a plastic tube being labeled and sealed.
Claire watched every movement.
When her sample was collected, she signed the paperwork and handed it over.
The technician explained that the report would be sent to Mr. Mercer within several business days.
Claire nodded.
Then she turned toward me.
“Whatever happens, don't blame me.”
I stared at her.
“You asked for this.”
“I asked for certainty.”
“No. You asked for a result you already seem to believe.”
Her expression flickered.
For a second, I thought she might tell me everything.
Instead, she said, “You'll understand soon.”
She walked away.
I stayed outside the building for several minutes after she left.
The sky was bright, but the wind was cold.
I called my father's old assistant, Evelyn.
She had worked with him for nineteen years.
When I told her about the DNA test, she was silent.
“Evelyn?”
“I wondered when this would happen.”
My heart stopped.
“What do you mean?”
She sighed.
“Your father told me something shortly before he died.”
“What?”
“He said there were things about your birth that had never been explained properly.”
I sat down on a bench.
“What things?”
“I don't know. He wouldn't tell me.”
“Did he say he doubted I was his daughter?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Too immediately.
“He said the opposite,” Evelyn continued. “He said that whatever happened before you were born, you were his daughter in every way that mattered.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why didn't you tell me before?”
“Because he asked me not to.”
I swallowed.
“Did he leave anything?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
My eyes opened.
“What?”
“A letter.”
My pulse quickened.
“Where is it?”
“Your father told me to give it to you only if someone challenged your place in the family.”
I stood.
“Evelyn, I need that letter.”
“I know.”
She told me where to meet her.
We chose a small café near her apartment.
When I arrived, she was already waiting.
She placed a sealed envelope on the table.
My name was written across the front.
I recognized my father's handwriting immediately.
My hands began to shake.
“You never opened it?”
“No.”
“Did he explain why he gave it to you?”
Evelyn looked toward the window.
“He told me there might come a day when someone would try to make you question whether you belonged to him.”
I stared at the envelope.
“Did he know Claire would do this?”
“I don't know.”
I turned it over.
There was no date.
No additional note.
Just my name.
I slipped it into my bag without opening it.
“Why aren't you reading it?” Evelyn asked.
“Because if my father wanted me to read it now, I think he would have given it to me himself.”
She reached across the table.
“He knew he wouldn't always be able to.”
That sentence stayed with me all the way home.
I placed the envelope inside my desk drawer.
I still didn't open it.
That evening, Claire called.
“I heard you met Evelyn.”
I went still.
“How?”
“She told Mom.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Claire's voice cooled.
“Don't start digging around for ways to manipulate the result.”
“I don't need to manipulate anything.”
“Good.”
There was a pause.
Then she said, “Because the truth is coming.”
The call ended.
I looked at the drawer.
The envelope sat inside it.
For the first time, I wondered whether my father had known exactly what was coming.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: My Father Had Left Me a Letter for the Day Someone Questioned My Blood, and Its First Lines Made Me Stop Reading
The Will Reading Was Supposed to Be About Goodbye, Until My Stepsister Turned My Father’s Final Wishes Into a Question of Blood
Part 2 of 12
