The header stopped him.

It was a certified paternity report from a federal lab, dated eight months after our divorce was finalized — I had ordered it the moment I could, not to use as a weapon but simply so that one day, if my children ever asked, I would be able to hand them proof of who they were.

His eyes went down the page and then stopped.

He looked up at Gavin, standing tall and unsmiling at my side.