If she stayed away, Patricia would call it guilt.
So Maren got out, lifted Milo from his car seat, and walked up the porch steps with her son’s hand in hers.
Patricia opened the door before Maren touched the bell.
She wore ivory linen, pearls, and a smile that did not reach any part of her face.
“Come in,” Patricia said.
No hug. No kiss for Milo. No umbrella offered as rain shone on Maren’s shoulders.
Maren stepped inside.
The house smelled of lemon polish, old wood, and roasted chicken cooling somewhere untouched. The dining room table had been pushed against the wall. Chairs filled the living room in two neat rows. Nearly every Vane relative sat facing the fireplace as if waiting for a lecture.
Conversation stopped the moment she entered.
Milo pressed against her leg.
At the fireplace stood Caleb.
He wore the navy sweater Maren had bought him for his birthday. His hair was damp, as if he had run his hands through it repeatedly. His face looked pale beneath the chandelier light.
Worst of all, he would not look at Milo.
Maren felt something inside her begin to sink.
“What is this?” she asked.
No one answered.
Russell Vane sat in a leather wingback chair near the curtains, his hands folded over the silver head of his cane. Patricia crossed the room and stood beside him. Willa looked down at her lap. Uncle Graham stared at Maren like she was already evidence.
Caleb finally moved.
He stepped forward holding a manila envelope.
“Maren,” he said, and his voice sounded wrong. Not angry. Not broken. Rehearsed.
“What is this?” she repeated.
“Open it.”
She took the envelope because everyone was watching and because Milo’s fingers were curled around hers so tightly she could feel each tiny knuckle.
Inside was a report from a private genetic testing company.
For a moment, she did not understand what she was seeing. Her eyes moved across sterile language, case numbers, identifiers, percentages.
Then one line sharpened.
Probability of paternity: 0.00%.
The room went silent in a way that seemed planned.
Maren looked up at Caleb.
He looked back now, but his gaze was guarded, almost empty.
“He isn’t mine,” Caleb said.
Milo shifted beside her.
Maren’s first feeling was not anger. It was disbelief so complete that her body refused to accept the room, the paper, the faces.
“This is wrong,” she said.
Caleb swallowed. “It’s not.”
“It is wrong.” She held up the papers. “Where did this come from?”
“A licensed lab,” Uncle Graham said.
“I wasn’t asking you.”
A few heads turned. Patricia’s mouth tightened.
Caleb looked wounded by Maren’s tone, which enraged her more than the paper.
“Caleb,” she said carefully, “you know how Milo was conceived.”
A tiny movement passed through the room. Not surprise. Recognition. As if several people already knew more than they should.
Patricia stepped forward.
“Yes,” she said. “We know the story you told him.”
Maren stared at her.
“The story?”
Patricia’s voice remained soft. “That there was a donor. That it was all agreed upon. Very convenient, now that questions are being asked.”
Maren felt heat rise up her neck.
“There were no questions until you invented them.”
Patricia’s eyes flashed. “That child looks nothing like my son.”
Milo flinched.
Maren moved
