I heard a neighbor’s car door slam outside and knew that was it — that was the moment I stopped pretending we were fine.
Greg didn’t argue. He called his mother on speaker as he zipped the suitcase.
“Mom,” he said, voice cracking, “I messed up.”
Her silence filled our home.
“No, I’m kicking you out. I’m staying here with my daughter.”
That afternoon, I took Tiffany to the police station. Greg sat across from us in the interview room, eyes red, hands clasped. The officer’s voice was calm but cutting.
“Did you submit another man’s DNA to the clinic?”
“Did you forge your wife’s consent?”
Greg nodded. Lindsay was there too, arms folded, jaw tight. She didn’t say a word. She just watched.
When our eyes met, she nodded once. Not approval. Not forgiveness. Just solidarity.
She didn’t say a word. She just watched.
Tiffany hugged me tightly before bed. “I just want things to be normal again, Mom.”
“Me too. We’ll make a new normal, hon.”
“Is he still my Dad?”
“He’s the man who raised you. That won’t change, honey. But how we move forward? We’ll decide that together.”
She nodded like it made perfect sense.
“Is he still my Dad?”
Greg’s calls have been brief. He doesn’t ask to come home, and I don’t give him the chance to do so.
I’m just… done.
