I sat on the edge of that bathtub and I could not move.

And then I noticed that there was something else in the envelope, something folded behind the three pages, and I drew it out with shaking hands.

It was a lab document, official, certified, a paternity test.

My daughter, at eighteen, terrified and alone, had somehow had the presence of mind to gather proof.

She had paid for the test herself, four months into her pregnancy, out of her own small savings, and she had obtained a sample the only way a girl in her position could, from a coffee cup the man had used and discarded in his executive office, and she had sent it away to a laboratory and gotten back an answer, and there it was, in bold black type at the bottom of the page.

Probability of Paternity: 99.99 percent.