“I authorized an abortion,” he said. “You were unconscious. I signed as your husband.”

“You ended my pregnancy?”

“It was evidence!” he exploded. “What was I supposed to do? Let you carry another man’s child?”

“You had no right!”

“I protected this family!”

“I hate you,” I sobbed.

“Now you know how I’ve felt for eighteen years.”

Then the phone rang. Jake had been in a serious car accident.

At the hospital, chaos reigned. Jake was critical and needed blood.

“I’m O positive,” Michael said.

“So am I,” I added.

The surgeon frowned. “He’s B negative. If both parents are type O, that’s genetically impossible.”

The hallway seemed to freeze.

Sarah, Jake’s wife, was B negative. She donated immediately.

Hours later, Jake stabilized. In the ICU, Michael turned to me, hollow-eyed.

“Is he my son?”

“Of course!”

“The blood says otherwise.”

Jake woke and whispered that he’d known since seventeen. A DNA test had confirmed it. But Michael was still his father in every way that mattered.

“Who?” Michael asked me.

Memory dragged me back further than Ethan—to my bachelorette party. I had been drunk. Mark Peterson—Michael’s best friend—drove me home. Mark, who moved away soon after. Mark, who had B-type blood.

“Mark,” I whispered.

Michael’s world shattered completely.