Scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice. I kiss her forehead. "I can't believe we're having another baby. This is amazing. " She tears up again. "You're the best husband.
I'm so lucky. " I smile. Bullet number two. August through March is a blur of planning and pretending. Let me walk you through it, because this is where I became someone I don't fully recognize. Phase one, proof.
I need ironclad, undeniable proof that the baby isn't mine. Non-invasive prenatal paternity testing exists. It's a blood test that can be done as early as eight weeks. Jessica's 10 weeks along. The problem, I need her blood sample and the alleged father's DNA.
I can't exactly ask her to participate. I find a lab in Eugene, 3 hours away. I tell Jessica I have a Saturday client meeting, August 17th. I drive there, meet with the technician. She explains I need fresh samples from both parties.
I'm stuck until I remember Jessica has routine prenatal blood work, August 20th. I volunteer to pick up her results. Play the concerned dad. The office doesn't give me actual blood, but the lab tech, a sympathetic woman named Rosa, who I slipped $200, explains I can collect DNA from Jessica's toothbrush and get it processed through their lab. She won't ask questions.
I collect the samples. Jessica's toothbrush bristles. Multiple cells. My own cheek swab is the control. I send everything to the lab under pseudonyms.
Sample A, mother. Sample B, alleged father, me. Results, 7 to 10 business days. During those 10 days I attend prenatal yoga with Jessica. We look at nursery furniture.
I tell everyone at work I'm over the moon. I'm dying inside, but I'm acting like I'm in a commercial for parenting magazines. August 27th, email arrives while I'm at work. Subject, paternity test results. I close my office door.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely click the attachment. Probability of paternity, 0.00%. Sample B is excluded as the biological father. I sit in my car in the parking garage for an hour. I punch the steering wheel until my knuckles bleed.
I scream until my throat is raw. Then I sit in silence. I think about Sophie, about losing custody, about this baby being raised as mine while Mark and Jessica laugh behind my back. About how if I don't play this perfectly, I lose everything. I wipe my face, straighten my tie, drive home.
Jessica greets me with, "How was work, honey? " I kiss her cheek. "Busy. How's our little one? " She beams and shows me a photo from today's ultrasound. I create a folder on an encrypted external drive. Project Architect.
Everything goes in there. Phase two begins. September through October, I document everything. I set up a hidden camera in our bedroom, motion activated, tucked inside our alarm clock. I hate myself for it, but I need proof beyond texts.
The camera captures Mark visiting three times in September while I'm at work. 20-minute visits, then an hour, then two. They're in my bed. My bed. I download every video to the encrypted drive, organized by date.
I hire a private investigator, a firm in Seattle, out of state to avoid local connections. The PI follows them, documents hotel visits, restaurants, confirms timeline. $800 a week. Worth every penny. I keep attending prenatal appointments, holding Jessica's hand during ultrasounds, taking photos. Each photo gets filed under evidence false paternity.