That got him to unfold.
My son walked in like he owned the place, smiled smugly, and gave Mia a condescending nod before plopping onto the same couch he always did.
“So,” he said, “you came to your senses?”
I didn’t answer. I handed him the envelope.
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this? My share in the inheritance?”
“Just open it,” I said.
He tore it open, then looked at the paper. His lips moved as he read. He was sh0cked.
“‘Probability of paternity: 99.9999 percent.’” He looked up. “She’s mine?”
“Shocking, isn’t it, huh?” Ava said from the hallway.
My granddaughter strolled into the room, wearing jeans and a hoodie, her gaze fixed on her father.
“I used to cry, wondering what I did wrong,” she remarked gently. “Why my father despised me. Why did he forget my birthday and never attend my school plays? I figured if I got high grades or worked harder, you’d come around.”
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