He just sent a photo.
And underneath it, he wrote: “That child isn’t Daniel’s. He’s mine. I’ve had the DNA test results since Matthew was six months old.”
I stared at the screen.
The photo was of a medical file. It showed a sheet with a laboratory seal, full names, percentages, and signatures. I didn’t understand all of it, but I did understand the sentence highlighted in yellow: “Paternal biological probability: 99.99%.” Alleged father: Sergio Alarcon. Minor: Matthew Alarcon Torres.
I showed the phone to Daniel. My husband went even whiter.
“Then why did Alejandra text me that?” he whispered.
Before I could answer, Sergio sent another message. “Because she wants Daniel to sign a paternity acknowledgment. Not out of love. For money.”
I felt the kitchen go cold.
The coffee was still on the table. The breakfast was getting cold. Outside, the morning routine of the neighborhood continued as usual—a trash truck drove past, a neighbor was watering her walkway. But a massive fracture had just opened in my home.
Daniel sat down. “I don’t understand anything.”
“Well, understand quickly,” I told him, “because if your ex is using a child as a bargaining chip, nobody in this house is going to play blindly.”
Sergio called. I put him on speakerphone.
“Mariana?” he asked. His voice didn’t sound furious. It sounded exhausted. That worried me even more.
“Yes.”
“Thank you for sending me the screenshot. Alejandra took my phone last night. I barely just got it back because she stepped into the shower.”
Daniel leaned toward the phone. “Sergio, I knew absolutely nothing about this.”
“I believe you,” he responded.
That surprised me. “Why?” I asked.
Sergio let out a dry laugh. “Because she’s done this before.”
My skin crawled. “With whom?”
“With my cousin. With a former boss. With an old college classmate. Every single time she needs money, she threatens to change Matthew’s last name and tell the boy that another man is his real father.”
Daniel buried his face in his hands. “Then why are you still with her?”
There was silence on the line. Then, the sound of a plate moving in the background. “Because Matthew is my son. And because she uses him to punish me.”
At that, my anger subsided a little. Not toward Alejandra, but for that little boy. Matthew was seven years old and already living in a house where the adults hurled his last name around like a weapon.
“Where is Alejandra right now?” I asked.
Sergio lowered his voice. “In the bedroom. She’s packing a suitcase. She says she’s leaving with Matthew and that Daniel is going to help her. She says if I don’t sign over the deed to the apartment, I’ll never see the boy again.”
