But the answer was human, and humanity complicated rage. Linda knew enough about single mothers from her work at the dental office to understand how quickly principles can get traded for survival under pressure. She also knew, with painful clarity, that if she and David had ever had a child of their own, she would have fought like hell for whatever version of support she could extract from him.
“What made you bring him to the fair?” Linda asked next.
Nia did not answer for a moment. Then she said, “He started kindergarten orientation last week. They asked him to draw his family. He drew me, my cousin Patrice, his grandma Ruth, and David with a question mark over his head.” Her voice remained even, but something rough edged into it.
“Then this morning at breakfast he asked if he’d done something wrong because Daddy only comes in other towns. I had heard through a mutual contact that you two went to the county fair every year. So I decided he was either going to remain a secret forever or become a fact today.”
Linda had no response ready for that.
For a long time she would remember the image of the question mark over David’s stick-figure head and feel simultaneously furious, heartsick, and ashamed that part of her grief involved a child she had never asked to know. When the lawyers returned, the meeting shifted to logistics: pending results, potential voluntary acknowledgment, child support calculations, and temporary communication rules. Linda listened while legal vocabulary wrapped itself around the raw emotional core.
She found the language almost soothing. Obligations, schedules, disclosures, arrears. Law at least pretended reality could be itemized.
The DNA test came back six days later.
There was no drama to it. No twist. The percentage was conclusive, and David was, as everyone with eyes already knew, Cameron’s father. Linda had expected confirmation to make her feel either vindicated or annihilated.