Chapter 12 - DNA
Finley’s paternity was tested formally.
Not because I doubted Evelyn morally.
Because law and the child deserved certainty.
Chain-of-custody samples.
Accredited lab.
Result:
Consistent with me as biological father at overwhelming statistical probability.
Finley was my son.
Seven years old.
I had missed:
Birth.
First word.
First steps.
First school day.
Everything.
Did that make Evelyn legally wrong for keeping him away?
The answer depended on what she reasonably believed.
No court had adjudicated paternity.
I had been recorded as widower.
She believed contact endangered both of us.
No kidnapping by mother.
No concealment order violated.
Family court would establish parentage and schedule.
Then Finley.
He asked:
“So you’re really my dad?”
“Yes.”
“Do I have to live with you?”
“No.”
That surprised him.
“We’re going to figure out what is safe and what you want with adults helping.”
He nodded.
Then:
“Do you have guns?”
Not the question I expected.
“Yes.”
“Mom says Mafia people have guns.”
“They’re secured.”
“Are you Mafia?”
Long silence.
“I have a reputation and a history I’m not going to explain badly to a seven-year-old.”
He smiled slightly.
May you like
“Mom said you talk weird.”
Evelyn laughed for the first time.
