A week later, the results arrived.

Probability of maternity: 0%.

My heart stopped. It made no sense. Impossible. I had carried Lucas for nine months, endured sixteen hours of labor. How could I not be his mother?

Trembling, I printed the report and rushed to Helen’s house.

Caleb opened the door, pale as a ghost.
— “Claire, I told you—”

— “Look!” I waved the paper in his face. “This test says Lucas isn’t even my son!”

His face turned white. Anger gave way to fear.
— “Do you understand what that means?”

— “Yes. That this lab is incompetent!”

He shook his head.
— “I redid the test somewhere else. Same result.”

His words froze my blood.
— “So… Lucas isn’t our biological child.”