The doctor walked in, holding a single sheet of paper in a plastic sleeve.

His face was neutral, but his eyes carried a heavy weight.

He didn’t speak. He simply handed the paper to Blake.

Blake’s hands shook so violently the plastic sleeve crinkled loudly in the quiet room.

He stared at the paper.

His eyes darted back and forth across the printed numbers.

“Probability of paternity,” Blake read, his voice cracking on the syllables. “Ninety-nine point nine, nine percent.”

He let out a ragged, choking sound.

The paper slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor, landing near my boots.

Blake sank onto the small stool in the corner of the room.

He covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking.

“My God,” he wept. “They’re my boys. Toby, Noah, Leo. They’re my sons.”

I looked down at the paper on the floor.

The black ink confirmed what I had known for four years.

“They are my sons, Blake,” I said quietly. “You don’t get to claim them just because a piece of paper says so.”