PART 2
The name was Gil Mercer.
Uncle Gil.
He wasn’t really my uncle. He was my dad’s best friend from the feed store. He’d been at every birthday, every Easter, every Christmas Eve of my life.
He taught me to ride a bike when Dad was working double shifts.
He cried at my wedding harder than my father did.
And according to the site, he was my son’s grandfather.
Which meant he was my father.
I sat at my kitchen table until 2 a.m.
Sam found me there.
He read the screen over my shoulder. Then he read it again.
“Becca,” he said softly. “Your mom did this to prove Tucker wasn’t mine.”
“I know.”
“And it proved you aren’t your dad’s.”
“I know.”
The next morning, I printed two pages.
The first showed Tucker’s father match. Sam. 99.9%.
The second showed the grandfather match.
On Christmas Eve, I drove to my mother’s farmhouse with both pages in an envelope.
The whole family was there. Russ and his wife. Their kids. My father in his recliner. And Uncle Gil by the fireplace, like always.
My mother saw me and stiffened. “I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I brought you something,” I said. “For the Christmas card.”
I handed her the envelope.
She opened the first page and smiled.
“Well,” she said loudly, “I suppose we’ll finally settle this.”
Then she read it.
Her smile faded.
“That’s… fine,” she said. “So he’s Sam’s.”
“Keep reading.”
She turned to the second page.
I watched the color leave her face in real time.
“Where did you get this?”
“From the test you ordered with my son’s toothbrush.”
Russ came over. “What is it?”
My mother folded the paper in half.
Uncle Gil looked up from the fireplace.
Then my father, who hadn’t said a word all night, held out his hand.
“Phyllis,” he said quietly. “Give it to me.”
She didn’t.
So I did. I had a third copy.
My father read it for a long time.
Then he looked at Gil.
Gil didn’t deny it. He just closed his eyes.
“It was one summer,” he said hoarsely. “Thirty-seven years ago. Phyllis made me swear.”
My father folded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket.
Then he did something I’ll never forget.
He walked across the room, knelt in front of Tucker, and said, “You’re my grandson. Paper doesn’t get a vote.”
Then he looked at me.
“And you’re my daughter. Same rule.”
I’ve never cried that hard in my life.
My mother tried to explain. My father didn’t let her.
He moved into my guest room on December 26th.
He filed for divorce in January.
The family trust my mother controlled had a clause: it went to “blood descendants of Walter Harlow.” My grandfather. My mother’s father-in-law.
My mother had spent nine years trying to prove my son didn’t qualify.
The test proved I didn’t either.
I didn’t care.
My father, who did qualify, signed his entire share over to Tucker anyway.
“Best use of it,” he said.
Russ hasn’t spoken to Mom since.
Uncle Gil came to see me in February. He asked if he could still come to Tucker’s baseball games.
I said yes. From the bleachers. Like before.
This Christmas, we sent our own card.
My dad. Sam. Tucker. Me.
Tucker wore his red sweater.
We made sure his whole arm was in the picture.
THE END.
