A Night, A Secret...A Child

Before he could stop himself, Nicolas began thinking of all the family get-togethers that would have taken place in this room: the birthdays parties, the anniversaries, the Christmases.

He stared at Serina and wondered if she’d ever felt guilty over what she’d done. It seemed impossible that she hadn’t given him a second thought over the years. He was her daughter’s father, for pity’s sake.

There again, this whole situation seemed impossible.

Suddenly, her fussing over Midnight annoyed the hell out of him.

‘If you’ve finally finished with that damned animal,’ he snapped, ‘do you think we might get back to the subject at hand?’

She stood up and glared at him, her shoulders as straight as her gaze. ‘Look, I already told you. Felicity is Greg’s daughter, not yours. I can’t imagine what Bert and Franny told you to make you believe otherwise.’

‘Several things,’ he shot back at her. ‘Firstly, they expressed their gratitude that their son had been lucky enough to have at least one child. It seems having mumps as an adolescent can lead to sterility.’

‘Greg was not sterile,’ she countered quite firmly, ‘and I can prove it. We had tests done when we didn’t conceive another child. He did have a low sperm count. But he could still have become a father.’

‘But not of a musical prodigy,’ Nicolas snapped. ‘Serina, do you think I’m totally blind? How many twelve-year-old girls can play like Felicity did tonight? She didn’t come from some tone-deaf father!’

‘She’s my daughter, too, you know,’ Serina argued, her face becoming quite flushed. ‘I wasn’t half-bad at music.’

‘You were merely adequate.’

Her hands found her hips. ‘Oh, thank you very much.’

‘You can snap and snarl all you like. But I know what I know. Felicity is my daughter.’

‘In that case, how can you explain her birth date, which can also be verified? Felicity was born exactly nine months after our wedding day, ten months after I slept with you that night. Since you’re such a genius, you should be able to do the maths. She couldn’t possibly be your daughter!’

Nicolas had been waiting for this argument to surface.

‘I fell for that argument once before, Serina,’ he retorted, finding calm in the face of her growing hysteria. ‘But not tonight. Bert and Franny also waxed lyrical about how beautiful Felicity looked when she was born. Nothing like their son, who’d been all wrinkly. Not like a newborn at all, Franny said.’

He watched as Serina struggled to find something to say. But failed.

‘She was late being born, wasn’t she?’ he charged. ‘Very late.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ she spluttered. ‘No doctor worth his salt would let a mother go that late these days. He would have given me an induction.’

‘The doctor probably didn’t know you were that late. Because you gave him the wrong dates. Now let me guess. You didn’t have an ultrasound during your pregnancy. You made up some excuse about being superstitious about them. Maybe I could ask your mother and verify my suspicions.’

Serina crossed her arms. ‘What you’re saying is just so much rubbish! I don’t know if you’re mad, or just delusional.’

‘If you keep denying it, Serina, I will have a DNA test done and then there will be no further arguments.’

Her arms fell open, as did her mouth. ‘You can’t do that! Not without my permission.’

‘Oh, yes I can. Trust me. All I need is a good lawyer and a court order. Soon, I’ll have what you’ve denied me for twelve years. Proof of my paternity, then access to my daughter.’

‘Don’t do this, Nicolas!’ Serina cried, coming forward to grip the edge of the countertop.

‘Don’t do what?’

‘Don’t destroy your daughter’s life.’

‘So she is my daughter.’

There was a stricken silence from Serina, then a long shuddering sigh as her head drooped. ‘Yes,’ she confessed brokenly. ‘Yes, she’s your daughter!’

Nicolas felt like someone had struck him. It was one thing to suspect something, quite another to hear it from the only person who knew. He was sitting there, stunned, when her head lifted, her eyes flooded with tears.

‘I’m sorry, Nicolas,’ she choked out, ‘so sorry.’

‘She’s sorry,’ he repeated numbly.

‘I never meant to hurt you. I never meant any of it. What I did…it was wrong. But not intentional.’

‘Not intentional,’ he repeated, all the while trying to control the emotions welling up inside him. Not fury so much anymore. In its place was a deep sadness, and a dreadful, dreadful emptiness.