“Yes!”

“That night you overdosed, they ran labs. You were pregnant.”

The room spun. “Pregnant?”

“Three months,” he said bitterly. “We hadn’t touched in six.”

The baby was Ethan’s.

“What happened?”

“I authorized an abortion,” he said. “You were unconscious. I signed as your husband.”

“You ended my pregnancy?”

“It was evidence!” he exploded. “What was I supposed to do? Let you carry another man’s child?”

“You had no right!”

“I protected this family!”

“I hate you,” I sobbed.

“Now you know how I’ve felt for eighteen years.”

Then the phone rang. Jake had been in a serious car accident.

At the hospital, chaos reigned. Jake was critical and needed blood.

“I’m O positive,” Michael said.

“So am I,” I added.

The surgeon frowned. “He’s B negative. If both parents are type O, that’s genetically impossible.”

The hallway seemed to freeze.

Sarah, Jake’s wife, was B negative. She donated immediately.

Hours later, Jake stabilized. In the ICU, Michael turned to me, hollow-eyed.

“Is he my son?”

“Of course!”

“The blood says otherwise.”

Jake woke and whispered that he’d known since seventeen. A DNA test had confirmed it. But Michael was still his father in every way that mattered.

“Who?” Michael asked me.

Memory dragged me back further than Ethan—to my bachelorette party. I had been drunk. Mark Peterson—Michael’s best friend—drove me home. Mark, who moved away soon after. Mark, who had B-type blood.

“Mark,” I whispered.

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