Searching for Proof
Mark's terror was palpable; Susan's resolve, unshaken. Chaos stormed through my thoughts. Evidence. That document. I needed it now. Wrenching free, I stumbled toward the bedroom. My heart pounded painfully against my ribs. I yanked open the nightstand drawer, hands trembling so violently I fumbled the key. With a clatter, it opened. Inside lay our important papers: passports, marriage license, deeds... all neatly arranged. Frantically, I rifled through them, scattering the contents.
Finding the Report
Finally, my fingers brushed a stiff plastic folder. I pulled it out. Inside lay several pages—the top one yellowed and brittle. Immediately, I recognized the hospital letterhead and date: ten years ago. Below dense medical jargon, the conclusion stood clear: "Extremely low sperm motility, natural conception highly improbable." Beneath it, the hospital’s familiar red seal. I held the paper, thin yet impossibly heavy—the bedrock of my eight-year marriage. Drawing a deep breath, I carried it back to the warzone at the door.
Escalating Standoff
The living room tension had thickened. Mark paced like a caged animal, glare fixed on Susan. She leaned against the doorframe, child clutched protectively in her arms, shielding him from the hall. Seeing me return with the report, Mark seized it like a lifeline. "See! Proof is here!" He snatched it from me, thrusting it toward Susan, nearly jabbing her nose. "Open your eyes! Forgery? Yours is the fake! I can’t father children! You’ve got the wrong man! Take your bastard and leave!" His voice screeched with hysteria.
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