He stood by the window with his arms crossed, refusing to speak to me or to look at the bassinet where our son slept.

I didn’t argue.

I didn’t cry — the tears had run out somewhere around three in the morning, and what was left in their place was clearer and colder and more useful.

I sat up straight and held out my arm for the technician, and I watched in silence while they swabbed the inside of my baby’s cheek.

I let them do it because refusing would have changed nothing, and because — though Nicolas could not have understood this — the test was no longer for me.

I already knew Leander was his.