“Blood doesn’t make someone a parent, Jessica,” I said, gripping the DNA test as if it might burst into flames. “My dad raised me. He loved me more than anything. He’s the one who taught me how to be a man. You’re nothing but a stranger.”
“You can’t just—” she started, her face shifting from disbelief to anger.
“I can,” I cut in. “And I am.”
I handed the papers back to her—unsigned.
“You walked away from me once without thinking about the consequences. This time, I’m the one shutting the door.”
She tried to recover, throwing words at me—something about rights, family, and second chances—but I wasn’t listening anymore.
The kitchen smelled of garlic and thyme, the kind of warmth that settles into your chest before you even realize how much you needed it.
After Jessica left, my dad had gone out into the backyard. I knew he needed a few minutes alone after the bomb she’d dropped.
So I stood at the stove, stirring a pot of our favorite comfort meal: lamb stew.
“You didn’t have to cook, Dyl,” he said quietly from the doorway.
“I needed to keep my hands busy, Dad,” I replied. “And I figured you could use something warm.”
He gave a small nod and walked over, gently stirring the pot.
“She waited 22 years to drop that on you,” he muttered.
“And on you too, Dad,” I said softly. “She dropped it on both of us.”
He didn’t look at me, but I noticed his grip tighten around the spoon.
“It doesn’t change anything,” I said, washing my hands at the sink. “You’re still my dad. Blood or not.”
“Yeah,” he sighed, though the word sounded fragile.
I walked over and leaned against the counter beside him.
“Dad, I mean it,” I said. “Blood doesn’t change who held me at three in the morning. It doesn’t change who taught me how to ride a bike… or who sat in the ER when I split my chin open on the sidewalk.”
He stirred the stew again, his eyes starting to mist.
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