OLIVER
The proof arrives at 4:17 in the morning, thirteen years too late to tell me anything I do not already know.
Anny and I sit beside each other at the kitchen table while the encrypted report opens on my laptop. We gave our samples at an accredited laboratory yesterday. Nikolina’s was collected in Spain under the supervision of a child-protection representative.
Three names appear on the screen.
ANNY ADAMS.
OLIVER ADAMS.
NIKOLINA VEGA.
The laboratory compares the genetic markers, explains its methodology, and reduces our entire history to two lines.
Probability of maternity: greater than 99.9999 percent.
Probability of paternity: greater than 99.9999 percent.
Anny covers her mouth.
I read the numbers again.
The report does not make Nikolina my daughter. It does not return
