I understood.
“There’s no uncertainty on my side,” I said.
“Daniel is your father.”
Iris’s expression hardened.
“I want proof anyway.”
Daniel nodded immediately.
“Anything you want.”
“A DNA test.”
“Yes.”
“And until then, nobody tells anyone at school.”
Ryan answered first.
“Absolutely.”
Daniel agreed.
Iris turned to me.
“And you don’t get to manage this anymore.”
That hurt.
It also felt deserved.
“Okay.”
The next several days were brutal in quieter ways.
Prom pictures flooded social media while Iris stayed home.
Friends messaged asking why she and Ryan had left early.
She told them there had been a family emergency, which was both vague and painfully accurate.
Ryan kept his distance except for one message each evening asking whether she was okay.
She rarely answered more than two words.
Daniel arranged the DNA test immediately.
Iris insisted on handling every appointment herself.
She didn’t want me calling ahead.
She didn’t want Daniel making decisions.
She wanted copies of every form.
For once, the adults in her life followed her lead.
The results came eleven days later.
Daniel was her biological father.
The probability was effectively conclusive.
Iris read the report at our kitchen table.
The same table where Ryan had placed the envelope.
She read every line twice.
Daniel sat across from her, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white.
Ryan stood near the doorway.
I stayed back.
When Iris finally put the report down, Daniel whispered, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
She looked at him.
“You didn’t know.”
Then she looked at me.
I had no defense left.
Daniel said, “But I’m here now, if you’ll let me be.
I don’t expect you to call me Dad.
I don’t expect anything.
I just want the chance to know you.”
Iris studied him for a long time.
“I have questions.”
“Ask all of them.”
She did.
For almost three hours.
She asked where he’d gone after leaving me.
Whether he’d ever tried to find me.
Whether he’d wanted children.
