Right after delivery, my husband smirked at the newborn: “We need a DNA test to be sure it’s mine.” I held the baby tightly, tears in my eyes, and whispered, “Fine, let’s do it.” Days later, the doctor stared at the lab results with a pale face and said, “Ma’am, call the police right now.”

“No,” I said, a dangerous, unfamiliar calm washing over me. “By the time the bureaucracy catches up, they’ll be in the wind.”

I grabbed a heavy, metal flashlight left behind by a construction crew on a nearby scaffold. Its weight felt grounding in my palm.

“We are going to the hydrotherapy wing,” I told Megan, my voice devoid of tremor. “Right now.”

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