The first email arrives far too early to be ignored, at a time when the ranch is still waking slowly and silence feels like it’s protecting everything fragile. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea cooling between my hands, trying to convince my body that the nausea is only physical, just another pregnancy symptom, when my phone vibrates beside an untouched plate. The sender’s name appears on the screen like a warning I didn’t ask for—but one I knew would come.
I open it.
The subject line is technical, impersonal, almost polite considering what it carries: Additional Documentation — Paternity Recognition Case. I read it once, then again, and on the third time I realize I’m holding my breath. Before I can close the file, another email arrives. Then another. Notifications pile up
