The Diagnosis
Yet now, this woman and child... My heart plummeted. Susan flinched at Mark's shout but held her ground. Drawing a steadying breath, she rummaged in her worn canvas bag. I could see her gathering resolve. "I'm not lying," she said, her voice calmer now, edged with weary resignation. She produced a neatly folded paper, unfolded it, and handed it to me. A birth certificate.
Susan's Resolve
Under "Mother" it read "Susan Miller," and under "Father," "Mark Johnson" stood out unmistakably. The child's birthdate was three years prior, in July. My eyes locked onto that familiar name, fingers turning icy. The paper burned like a branding iron. I took it reflexively, the sheet rustling faintly. Mark lunged forward, swift as a provoked lion, snatching the certificate with such force it nearly tore. "Fake! All of it!" he roared, spittle flying toward Susan's face.
Mark's Fury
"Where did you forge this? Trying to extort me? Not a chance! Get out! Now!" He brandished the paper, muscles taut, veins bulging in his neck. Mark's fury and Susan's pallor swirled before me like some absurd theater. Their shouts buzzed in my ears. Then, the boy who'd been hiding behind Susan peeked out timidly, terrified. His gaze slid past me to rest on Mark's enraged face. In that instant, my heart seized.
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