“This is my son, Alan,” I said. Jude couldn’t speak at first. He just stared. Alan, meanwhile, smiled and ran off for another corn dog. “How old is he?” Jude finally asked. “Eight,” I said, suddenly breathless. And then it hit me —
Alan’s features, his posture, even the way he crinkled his nose when he laughed — they were Jude’s. I thought back to the night of my farewell party. The drinks. The hug that lingered. The warmth of Jude’s arm around me. Could it be? “I thought he was from a donor,” I whispered.
“I went through with the procedure after the party… but now…” We agreed to a paternity test. Two weeks later, the results confirmed what our hearts already suspected.Jude was Alan’s father.
It changed everything. My carefully built life — one I thought I controlled — suddenly opened up to something unexpected. Something messier, maybe, but more meaningful. I’d planned to raise Alan alone. But maybe fate had other plans all along.