Chapter 1 - The Missing Sweater
The air in the dining room smelled of Lenora’s roasted chicken, buttery pie crust, and the sharp, synthetic perfume she wore whenever she wanted to project control.
I was sitting at the edge of the dining table, rocking the baby bouncer with the toe of my sneaker while trying to keep an eye on the two high chairs across from me. Being a mother to five-month-old triplets meant my life was measured in eight-ounce bottles, burp cloths, and a constant, humming exhaustion that lived right behind my eyes.
Owen and Miles were in their high chairs, babbling loudly and smacking their palms against their plastic trays. In the bouncer beside me, Willa was quietly entertaining herself. She was wearing her favorite yellow bib—the one with the faded embroidered duck in the corner—and she kept opening and closing her tiny fingers around the soft terry cloth, delighted by the texture.
My mother-in-law, Lenora, stepped out of the kitchen carrying a casserole dish. Her husband, Russell, followed her with a pitcher of iced tea.
"I brought a little something extra for the boys," Lenora announced, setting the hot dish on the trivet. She reached into her oversized leather tote bag and pulled out a delicate pastel gift bag filled with tissue paper.
She pulled out two tiny cardigans. They were light sky-blue, hand-knit, and finished with polished wooden buttons.
"Oh, Lenora, you shouldn't have," I said, offering a tired, polite smile. "They're adorable."
Lenora didn't look at me. She stepped past my chair, walked over to the high chairs, and draped the first cardigan over Owen’s shoulders. She held the second one against Miles’s chest, smoothing the wool with her thumbs.
I waited for her to reach into the bag again.
She didn't. She folded the empty tissue paper, tucked it back into her purse, and took her seat at the head of the table next to Russell.
The room went strangely quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of plastic baby spoons.
"What about Willa?" I asked softly, looking up from my daughter's bouncer.
Lenora glanced briefly down at Willa, her expression cool, detached, and unreadable.
"I wasn't sure that color would suit her," Lenora said smoothly, picking up her napkin and placing it over her lap.
A cold knot formed in the pit of my stomach. "It's just light blue, Lenora. And she’s five months old."
"Well," Lenora replied, not bothering to look up from her plate, "some babies look better in certain shades than others."
I felt my cheeks flush hot. Willa wasn't wearing sky blue, but she was wearing dark, silky hair and striking brown eyes—eyes that looked identical to my mother’s. Her brothers, on the other hand, had taken almost entirely after the Mercer side of the family. Owen had Nolan’s broad forehead and pale blue eyes; Miles had that intense, furrowed brow that Russell and Nolan both wore whenever they were thinking hard—the famous "Mercer frown."
Willa didn't look like a Mercer at first glance. But under her socks, she had Nolan's unmistakable crooked pinky toe, curved slightly inward just like his. When she was born, Nolan had spent twenty minutes taking high-definition photos of that toe, laughing through tears in the delivery room, calling her his "little genetic duplicate."
Apparently, that memory had vanished into thin air.
Russell cleared his throat awkwardly, sensing the spike in tension. He looked at Willa, then at his wife, and then across the table at his son.
"Children can look like both sides of a family, Lenora," Russell said quietly, his voice carrying a steady, warning tone. "It’s basic biology."
My husband, Nolan, hadn't said a word since sit-down. He sat across from me, his food untouched, his knuckles white around his fork. Slowly, deliberately, he set his fork down on the table. The metal clink against the china echoed in the quiet room.
"I had them tested," Nolan said.
His voice wasn't loud. It was flat, sterile, and completely devoid of emotion.
I stopped rocking Willa's bouncer. "Tested? What are you talking about, Nolan? Tested for what?"
"Paternity," he said.
The word hung in the air like poison gas.
I stared at him, convinced for a second that I had misheard. "Paternity? Are you out of your mind?"
Nolan didn't answer me directly. He reached into his pocket, unlocked his smartphone, and slid it across the wooden tabletop. The screen was bright, displaying a digital document with official-looking headers.
I leaned forward, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I could barely breathe.
Three names were listed down the left side of the screen: Owen Mercer, Miles Mercer, Willa Mercer.
Next to Owen and Miles, there were long percentages—99.999%. Nolan had used a digital drawing tool to circle those two numbers in bright, electric blue.
Under Willa’s name, however, there were no percentages. Instead, Nolan had drawn a thick, jagged red box around two bolded words in the center column.
May you like
NO RESULT.
"Two are mine," Nolan said, his voice cold and sharp enough to cut glass. He reached across the table and pointed his index finger directly at our five-month-old daughter. "She isn't."
