Chapter 4 - The Lone Battle
Monday morning arrived with a brutal reality check.
My house was a chaotic blur of crying babies, sterilizer steam, and overflowing laundry hampers. With Nolan gone, the sheer physical workload of managing three five-month-olds fell entirely on my shoulders, supplemented only by the brief hours my mother and Russell could spare.
At 8:00 AM sharp, I sat down at my laptop on the kitchen island with Willa resting on a pillow in my lap while her brothers napped upstairs. I dialed the toll-free customer service number for Apex Genetics, the lab company named in the header of Nolan's screenshot.
After navigating four automated menus, a representative came on the line.
"Thank you for calling Apex Genetics, my name is Sarah. How can I help you today?"
"Hello," I said, my voice crisp and authoritative. "I am calling regarding a paternity test report. I have the case number from a screenshot." I read off the numbers listed under Willa's name.
There was a brief pause, followed by the clatter of a keyboard.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," the agent replied. "This account was established under the name Nolan Mercer. You are not listed as an authorized recipient or a party to this test. Due to HIPAA and privacy regulations, I cannot discuss the details of this file with you."
"I am the mother of the child!" I insisted, gripping the edge of the desk. "I am her legal guardian. The alleged father took a sample from my daughter without my consent and is now using an incomplete screenshot to abandon his family!"
"I understand your frustration, ma'am," Sarah said professionally. "However, because this was an at-home informational kit ordered by Mr. Mercer, we can only release full details to the account holder or to a legal representative with a court order—OR if you submit proof of legal guardianship and complete our identity verification process."
"How long does that verification process take?"
"Usually three to five business days once you upload the child's birth certificate and your ID."
"Send me the portal link," I said immediately. "I’ll have the documents uploaded in ten minutes."
While I waited for the lab to process my request, my real life was crashing down around me.
My maternity leave was scheduled to end in exactly eleven days. I worked as a senior payroll supervisor for a regional healthcare management firm, overseeing payroll operations for eight medical clinics. It was a high-stress, detail-oriented job that demanded absolute focus.
Before Nolan walked out, we had a solid plan. We had secured three infant slots at a reputable daycare near my office, which cost a small fortune. Because my workday frequently ran late due to semi-monthly payroll processing, Nolan’s flexible schedule as an independent contractor meant he was supposed to handle the 4:30 PM pickup every single day.
Without Nolan, the entire structure collapsed.
My mother offered to help, but she was sixty-eight with arthritis; looking after three infants for ten hours a day was physically impossible for her. Russell wanted to help, but he suffered from a serious heart condition and couldn't safely carry two infant car seats at once.
On Wednesday afternoon, my phone chimed. It was a text from Nolan.
I want to pick up Owen and Miles on Saturday morning for a few hours. Let me know what time works.
I stared at the message, my stomach churning. He was trying to establish a new normal where he selectively parented two-thirds of his children while ignoring the third.
I typed back a response immediately:
You have three children, Nolan. I am not making a visitation schedule that pretends one of your daughters doesn't exist. If you want to see your children, you come here and see all three of them.
He never replied.
On Friday morning, a sleek silver sedan pulled into my driveway.
I looked out the living room window and saw my mother-in-law, Lenora, stepping out of the car. She was carrying a massive brown paper shopping bag filled with jumbo boxes of diapers.
I opened the front door before she could knock.
"Chloe," Lenora said, holding up the bag with a tight, strained smile. "I brought some supplies for the boys."
She stepped past me into the entryway, setting the bag down. She looked toward the stairs. "Are Owen and Miles awake? Can I see them?"
"Willa is awake, too," I said, standing in her way, my arms crossed over my chest. "She's in the living room."
Lenora’s smile faltered. She looked away, her eyes fixing on a framed photo on the wall. "Chloe, please don't make this difficult. I don't think it's fair to ask Nolan—or our family—to bond with a child when there is such a heavy question hanging over her..."
"There is no question hanging over her!" I said, my voice ringing through the hallway. "There is a question about an unverified screenshot that your son took and showed to you before he even had the decency to show his wife!"
"I only know what my son told me," Lenora said defensively, drawing herself up. "He showed me the lab document. It said No Result."
"Then perhaps," I said, stepping closer to her, "you should have asked your son a few more questions before you decided to buy two sweaters for three babies!"
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Lenora’s face turned bright red. She opened her mouth to argue, but the sheer fury in my eyes made her hesitate. Without another word, she turned around, walked out the front door, and got back into her car without seeing any of her grandchildren.
As her car drove away, I sank onto the bottom step of the staircase and cried tears of pure exhaustion and rage. But I couldn't cry for long. In the living room, a chorus of tiny cries broke out. It was feeding time.
