«Youre not the father of her child!» shrieked my mother-in-law, demanding a DNA test. She turned to stone when the results proved she wasnt even the mother of her own son.
«Here,» Margaret threw a folded leaflet onto the table. «Read it in your free time.»
The glossy page unfolded, revealing a smiling couple with a baby and a bold headline: *»Genetic Testing Centre. 99.9% Accuracy.»*
My husband, Edward, sighed heavily and pushed his half-eaten dinner away. He stared anywhere but at me or his mother.
«Mum, we talked about this,» he said quietly, almost pleading.
Margaret ignored him completely. Her entire posturetight lips, sharp gazewas fixed on me, as if she could see right through me, searching for cracks in my armour.
«I just want the truth, Emily. For the familys sake.»
Her words sounded gentle, but they carried a threat.
I twisted my fingers under the table. The last month since little Oliver was born had been pure hell, all because of my mother-in-laws *doubts*.
I remembered our wedding, where shed raised her glass and toasted to *»the importance of good blood and breeding.»* Back then, Id brushed it off as old-fashioned nonsense. Now I knewit was her lifes creed.
First came the hints, the sideways glances at Olivers hair colour, the questions about my *»wild youth.»* Now shed gone on the offensive.
«What truth, Margaret?» I kept my voice steady. «Here he isyour grandson. The spitting image of Edward.»
«Spitting image?» She scoffed. «I dont see it. My son *cannot* be the father of your child!»
She said it softly, but with such icy certainty the air in the kitchen thickened. Edward flinched, finally tearing his eyes from the wall.
«Mum! What are you saying? Stop this now!»
«You stay quiet!» she snapped. «Youve been made a fool of, and youre happy about it. Raising some strangers bastard!»
I stood up. My legs barely held me, but I couldnt sit there any longer. I felt like a defendant in a rigged trial.
«If youre so sure why do you need the test?» I asked, staring straight into her eyes.
It was a gamble. I hoped shed back down. Instead, her lips stretched into a predators grin.
«So theres *no chance* left for you, girl. So everyone sees what you are. So my son finally wakes up.»
She looked at me with pure disdain. To her, I wasnt a daughter-in-law or a motherjust dirt to be scrubbed from their *»perfect»* family.
And in that moment, something in me shifted. The fear that had gripped me gave way to something cold, sharp, and crystal clear.
I glanced at my husband. He sat with his head bowed, crushed under his mothers authority. He hadnt defended me. He hadnt defended our son.
«Fine,» I said, so calmly it surprised even me.
Margaret straightened, victorious.
«Youll get your test,» I continued, circling the table until I stood right in front of her. «Well do it. Me, Edward, Oliver. But on one condition.»
She narrowed her eyes.
«And whats that?»
«You take it too.»
«Me?» She blinked, thrown. «Why would *I*?»
«To prove you have *any* claim to this family, since youre so eager to tear it apart,» I said coldly. «Unless youre not even related? Lets check. All of us.»
For a second, her mask slipped. Confusion gave way to blotchy fury crawling up her neck.
«How *dare* you, you little upstart!» she hissed, but the ice in her voice was gone. Id struck a nerve.
«I dare,» I said evenly. «Take it or leave it. You want the truth? Then lets have *all* of it.»
Edward looked up at me, terrified. His eyes begged, *»Emily, stop, dont do this.»* But it was too late.
Margaret glared at me, hatred burning in her stare. She knew I wouldnt back down. Her plan to humiliate me had cracked.
«Fine,» she spat. «Have it your way. Ill take your stupid test. But when that envelope opens and everyone sees you had another mans childIll personally throw your things out the door.»
She turned and slammed out so hard the glasses in the cabinet rattled.
Edward and I were alone. He looked at me like *Id* betrayed *him*.
«Why, Em? Why drag her into this? Shes my *mother*.»
«She insulted me, Edward. She insulted our son. And you just sat there.»
«Shes just worried,» he fumbled. «She doesnt mean harm.»
*Doesnt mean harm?* This woman had spent months systematically destroying my life, my motherhood, *our family*. And he called it *worry*.
The next three days were torture. Margaret launched a full-scale war.
She called Edward ten times a day, sobbing about how her *only son* could side with *»that little hussy»* and doubt his own mother. He came home from work grey-faced, avoiding my eyes.
Then the reinforcements arrivedEdwards cousin, Beatrice. She rang me.
«Emily, be reasonable,» she wheedled. «Margarets blood pressures through the roof. How can you do this to her? Think of the family!»
I hung up. They wanted me to feel guilty. To cave. But their pressure only hardened my resolve.
On the day of the test, we drove to the clinic together. Margaret sat in the back like a queen, silently staring out the window. Edward gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles whitened. I held Olivers carrier, watching him sleep peacefully.
In the sterile clinic, Margaret played the martyrsighing dramatically, rolling her eyes, answering the nurses questions with tragic flair.
When it was over, she cornered me in the hallway as Edward went to pay.
«Happy now?» she hissed. «Made a proper spectacle.»
«I just want this over,» I said wearily.
She smirked. «Oh, its only *beginning*, girl. Youve no idea what Ill do when that envelopes in my hands.»
I said nothing. Just looked at her. And for the first time, *she* looked away.
The week of waiting was eerie, like the calm before a storm. Edward and I barely spoke. He lived his life; I lived mine with Oliver. A wall grew between us daily.
I knew there was no going back. That envelope would be a verdicteither for me, as Margaret dreamed, or for the life wed known.
When the courier delivered the thick envelope, Margaret appeared at our door ten minutes lateras if shed been waiting outside.
She marched in like a judge ready to pass sentence. Edward, pale as a sheet, emerged from the bedroom.
«Well? Got your *truth*?» She held out her hand. «Give it here. *Ill* do it.»
But I didnt hand it over.
«No, Margaret. I will.»
She sneered but stepped back, anticipating triumph. She was *so sure* of her victory.
«You know, Emily,» she said sweetly, venom lacing her voice, «even if by some *mistake* that envelope says what you want youll *always* be an outsider. A charity case.»
She paused, savouring the blow. Edward looked at the floor.
«And a child by someone like *you* could never be *ours*. No matter how many tests you take. Blood tells.»
That was it. The last straw. Something inside me *clicked*final, irrevocable.
All the fear, the pain, the desperate attempts to be a good wife and daughter-in-law dissolved. Only cold clarity remained.
I looked at Edwardhis hunched shoulders, his silence. And I knew. Hed *always* choose her.
My hands didnt shake as I opened the envelope. The rustle of paper was deafening.
Inside were several pages. I skimmed the first. Then the second. I looked up at them. Margarets smirk widened.
«Well? Out with it, *actress*,» she jeered.
I turned to Edward.
«Congratulations. Youre the father. Probability: 99.9%.»
Margarets smirk faltered. Edward exhaled in reliefthen tensed at my expression. No joy. No relief.
«Fraud!» Margaret shrieked. «She *paid* them! I *knew* it!»
I ignored her. Picked up the second page.
«Now for the *real* truth, Margaret. The one you wanted so badly.»
I stepped toward her. She stepped back.
«It says» I let the words hang. *»Based on DNA analysis, Margaret Hastings is excluded as the biological mother of Edward Hastings.»* Probability of
