My Wavering
Mark waving the report, Susan’s silent defiance—they blurred before me. I’d felt the paper’s texture, seen the seal’s red ink. It was real. Mark’s rage, though extreme, seemed plausible. Wouldn’t anyone lash out if falsely accused? I’d watched him bring that report home; it had been safely stored. Could Susan truly... be lying? For money? My gaze shifted to the boy, pressed against his mother, face buried in her clothes. His vulnerability softened some corner of my heart. I shook my head sharply, banishing misplaced sympathy.
Susan's Account
Call the police? Evict them? What to do? Susan lifted her head, meeting my eyes directly, ignoring Mark’s rant. Hers were red-rimmed but startlingly lucid. "He’s your son, Mark," she addressed me calmly, her voice cutting through the noise. "Whether you admit it or not. His name is Lucas, three years and two months old. I conceived him at the Hilton downtown, room 1407. That night—there was an industry gala. Remember? You were drunk, called me over." As she named the date and place, Mark's pacing halted abruptly. A flash of stunned rigidity crossed his face.
Mark's Denial
The moment Susan mentioned the hotel and room, Mark erupted like a scalded cat. "Bullshit!" His shout rattled the windows, face purpling. "What Hilton? Room 1407? Lies! I recall nothing! You spin stories effortlessly! For money, you’d stoop to anything!" He turned to me, pleading urgently, sputtering, "Jennifer! Don’t listen! She’s insane! Out for extortion! Who knows how she got my name or work details? Can’t you see this cheap trick?" Mark’s vehement denial clashed with Susan’s precise recounting.
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