Guests gathered their kids, made excuses, and left without making eye contact. Only my cousin Lucy stayed behind long enough to hug me in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I knew Beatrice had been betting with people that Alexander would leave you. I should’ve told you.”
I felt sick.
Not sad.
Sick.
That night, after everyone left, Alexander came out of the bedroom. Valerie was asleep in his arms, her red curls stuck to her forehead. His eyes were swollen—he’d been crying.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I let them get into my head.”
I wanted to hold him and scream at him at the same time.
Then he told me something that shattered me:
He had already scheduled a DNA test.
He was planning to do it without telling me.
He sat on the edge of the bed, defeated.
“Not because I don’t love her,” he said. “I love her more than anything. But every comment, every joke… it was driving me insane.”
I took a deep breath.
It hurt—but I understood something clearly:
Beatrice hadn’t told a joke.
She had planted a disease.
“Let’s do it together,” I said. “Not to prove anything to you. To kill what she started.”
Three days later, the results arrived.