"We're going to the clinic today for a paternity test."
I stop mid-bite of toast. "What? Why? She's mine. The birth certificate?—"
"Covers your ass legally," Maya interrupts, crossing her arms. "Jessica abandoned Harper on your doorstep. What happens if she comes back? What happens if her family decides they want custody? You need legal documentation that she's yours, Tyler. Not just a birth certificate, but actual DNA proof that will hold up in court."
Nora's at the table with Harper, and I catch her nodding slightly. "She's right. It's protection for you and for Harper."
"Fine." I don't like it, but I'm not stupid enough to argue with both of them. "When?"
"Appointment's at nine." Maya's already got her phone out. "I called yesterday and got you in. We'll be back by eleven, then I'm spending the rest of the day making sure you know what you're doing before we leave."
"You're leaving today?" My stomach drops.
"We all are." Emma appears from upstairs with luggage. "Mom, Maya, and I. We've got to get back to Hartford. But you'll be fine. You've got Nora, and you're doing way better than you were on Tuesday."
That's a low bar, considering Tuesday, I was having a breakdown.
The drive over is quiet. Maya's in the passenger seat texting someone about a shift swap, and I'm trying to figure out why my chest feels tight when, by every rational measure, this test is a formality. I remember Jessica. I remember the night—well, what I can remember of it. The math lines up. The birth certificate is in my kitchen drawer with my name on it.
It's not that I doubt she's mine. It's that I haven't actually let myself sit with what happens if she's not. Some part of me has decided I want her either way, which is probably not the response a sane person would have. I’ve known her for four days. And I'm already in the position where Ineedher to be mine, regardless of what the lab says.
I don't know what to do with that.
The clinic is efficient and sterile, and it makes me nervous anyway. A nurse takes us back to a small room and explains the process. She’ll take simple cheek swabs from both Harper and me, provide official documentation to prove chain of custody, and we’ll get results in three to five business days.
"Three business days minimum for lab processing," Maya clarifies, watching the nurse swab the inside of my cheek. "So you'll get the results Tuesday or Wednesday next week at the earliest."
Harper fusses when they swab her, and I have to hold her still while she squirms. It only takes seconds, but she's pissed about it, her little face scrunching up in outrage.
"I know, baby girl," I mutter, taking her from the nurse. "I know. It's over now."
She settles against my chest, still hiccuping, and I press my hand against her back the way Nora showed me, the warm, steady pressure that helps her regulate. Four days ago, I didn't know that.Four days ago, I didn't know anything. I look down at her face, red and furious, but already calming, and feel the particular lurch of it again, the feeling that she’s really mine.
I don't know if I'm going to be any good at this yet, but I know I'm going to spend a long time figuring it out.
The nurse has me sign a bunch of forms confirming everything, then hands me a folder with information about how I'll receive the results via email and physical mail, apparently. Very official.
We're back at the house by 11 a.m., and Maya immediately goes into observation mode.
"Okay. I need to see you do the basics before I leave, because I'm not heading back to Hartford until I'm confident you won't kill this baby through incompetence."
"Jesus, Maya." But I'm already heading to the kitchen to make a bottle.
She follows, arms crossed, watching as I boil the kettle and set the timer for thirty minutes. While we wait, Harper starts fussing in Nora's arms.
"She's due for a diaper change," Nora says, checking her watch against the green column on the fridge chart.
"I've got it." I take Harper and head to the nursery, aware that Maya's right behind me.
I lay Harper on the changing table, support her legs, lift her bottom, and wipe front to back. A clean diaper underneath, fold the front up, and secure the tabs. Two-finger test on the waistband.
"Good," Maya says from the doorway. "You're not fumbling anymore."
I laugh. "I practiced about ten times yesterday. Maybe more."
She laughs too, just as the timer goes off downstairs. I carry Harper back to the kitchen, measure out two ounces of cooled water, add one level scoop of formula, shake until it dissolves, and test it on my wrist.
"Temp?"