Chapter 4 - THE TWINS DO NOT NEED A MAFIA STORY
The first formal paternity meeting happened in a family-court services building.
Not my estate.
Not a private clinic.
No bodyguards inside.
Marco waited outside because I insisted on driving with security and Claire objected to any intimidating presence around the children.
Fair.
Milo wore a green shirt.
Felix blue.
Apparently that was how teachers told them apart until they spoke.
They were identical enough that when they sat side by side I felt physically disoriented.
My own face appeared in fragments.
The set of the eyebrows.
The ears.
The way Felix crossed one ankle over the other exactly as I did.
None of that proved biology.
Human beings see resemblance where they want it.
So we tested.
Cheek swabs.
Identity verification.
Chain-of-custody forms.
Adeline first.
Then me.
Then boys.
Milo asked:
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” the technician said.
Felix asked:
“Does it tell if he’s Dad?”
Adeline looked at me.
The technician answered carefully.
“It tells us whether the biology matches.”
Milo:
“What does that mean?”
Claire stepped in.
“It means grown-ups will get one important answer.”
Good.
No burdening five-year-olds with legal theory.
Then Felix looked at me.
“If yes, do we move to your house?”
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
Immediate.
Adeline looked surprised.
I continued:
“You live with your mom. Testing doesn’t pack your bags.”
“Do we get your last name?”
“Not unless your mom and a court and you someday decide something should change.”
Too much.
He looked confused.
I simplified.
“No one is changing your name today.”
Good.
Then Milo asked:
“Do you have a pool?”
Adeline sighed.
I almost smiled.
“Yes.”
“Felix can’t swim.”
“I can float.”
“You sink.”
Normal.
May you like
For ten minutes, biology became less important than arguing about floating.
I let it.
