Chapter 6 - The Ultimatum at the Office
Within three hours of Sharon’s public post going live, our phones became unusable.
Notifications buzzed, vibrated, and chimed in an endless, agonizing cascade. Text messages from well-meaning neighbors asking if we were okay, veiled inquiries from acquaintances fishing for gossip, and outright hostile messages from members of Sharon’s local social circle filled our inboxes. Even my supervisor at the regional accounting firm sent a cautious, awkward text asking if I needed to take a few days off to "sort out personal matters."
The venom had leaked out of the private drawing room and flooded every corner of our daily lives.
By noon, Noah and Mia were playing with their Lego blocks in the den, oblivious to the digital earthquake shaking our world, but Thomas and I knew we couldn't hide from it. A lie told loudly enough in a small suburban town hardens into perceived reality within forty-eight hours if it goes unanswered.
"We need to settle this," Thomas said, pacing a tight circle across our hardwood living room floor, his coat still draped over the back of the sofa. "Not on Facebook. Not through text messages. Face-to-face."
"You want to go back to her house?" I asked, incredulous. "Thomas, after what she just posted? She’s a cornered animal. She won't listen to reason; she’ll just scream and throw things."
"I'm not going there to reason with her," Thomas replied, stopping his pacing and turning to look at me with absolute, chilling resolve. "I'm going to give her exactly what she’s demanding in front of witnesses, and then I'm going to shut her down permanently."
He reached for his car keys on the entry table.
"Call her," Thomas instructed, handing me his phone. "Put her on speaker. Tell her we're coming over to her office."
"Her office?" Sharon worked part-time as the executive office manager for her brother’s prestigious real estate firm downtown—a cushy, no-show position her brother maintained out of family obligation, complete with a private office on the second floor of a brick commercial building on Main Street.
"Yes," Thomas nodded coldly. "Her brother’s office. In the middle of the afternoon, when the staff and clients are all there. Let's see how much she likes broadcasting her family drama when her employers are watching."
I took a deep breath, dialed the familiar number, and hit speakerphone.
It rang twice before Sharon’s sharp, triumphant voice snapped through the receiver.
"Well. Took you long enough to come to your senses. Are you bringing the boy for the blood test, Thomas? Have you finally realized that—"
"Shut up, Mom," Thomas cut her off, his voice dropping into a register so dark and commanding that even through the phone speaker, Sharon’s voice hitched in surprise. "Listen to me very carefully. Sarah and I are driving downtown right now. We will be at your office on Main Street in twenty minutes."
"Oh! So you've decided to apologize—"
"We aren't apologizing for a damn thing," Thomas interrupted, stepping closer to the phone. "You wanted a public reckoning for Mia? You got it. We are coming to get a legal, verifiable, court-admissible paternity test scheduled right this second, through a certified medical lab, with your brother and your coworkers as witnesses. But when that test comes back—when it proves what everyone with a functioning brain already knows—you are dead to this family. Forever. No calls. No visits. No financial bailouts. Do you understand me?"
A heavy, stunned silence stretched across the line. Sharon hadn't expected pushback; she had expected us to cower, to beg her to take down the post, to come crawling back asking for forgiveness.
"You... you're bringing a lab tester?" Sharon stammered, her voice suddenly losing its razor-sharp edge, replaced by nervous flutter. "Thomas, don't be ridiculous, there's no need to involve outsiders, I was just expressing my—"
"Twenty minutes, Mom," Thomas said. "Have your brother in his office. Have a notary present if you want. We're ending this game today."
Click.
He ended the call before she could stutter another syllable.
The drive downtown took eighteen agonizing minutes. The winter sky overhead was a dull, bruised shade of gray, threatening more snow. As Thomas parallel-parked our station wagon right in front of the brick commercial building on Main Street, my hands were shaking so badly I could barely zip my coat.
"You don't have to come inside with me if you don't want to, Sarah," Thomas said softly, turning off the engine and reaching across the console to squeeze my trembling hand. "I can handle her."
"No," I said, lifting my chin and pushing the car door open. "We started this together, and we finish it together. She’s not going to look at me or my daughter ever again without knowing she lost."
We walked into the building, our boots clicking rhythmically against the marble lobby floor. We took the elevator up to the second floor, the digital numbers ticking upward like a countdown timer.
When the elevator doors slid open, we stepped out into the quiet, upscale waiting area of Miller & Associates Real Estate.
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The office was dead silent. Behind the polished mahogany reception desk, a young secretary stared down at her computer screen, pretending very hard not to exist. Through the glass partition of the corner office, we could see Sharon standing rigidly beside her brother, Arthur’s business partner and older brother, Uncle Richard, who looked like a man who had been dragged into a firing squad against his will.
Thomas didn't knock. He reached out, grabbed the brass handle of the glass door, and pushed it open wide, letting it slam against the wall with a sharp, echoing crack.
