The day Tom finally appeared, he didn’t bring flowers, apologies, or explanations—only demands. He wanted tests, signatures, certainty, as if a swab could overwrite the years he’d missed. Ava sat between them, feeling the weight of two lives pressing against her ribs. Gary’s cough rattled the sterile room, but he said nothing, afraid that any word might sound like begging. His hands, worn from work and worry, gripped the blanket as if it were the last thread tying him to her.

When the results arrived, the air felt sharp enough to cut. Tom leaned forward, hungry for validation. Ava read the paper once, then set it down with quiet finality. She crossed to Gary’s bedside, taking his trembling hand in both of hers. “You taught me what a father is,” she whispered. In that moment, biology became a footnote. Gary’s chest eased, not because he would live, but because he knew he would not be forgotten.