The days that followed felt like walking through fog. Daniel collapsed from the shock, swearing he never consented to anything that night. Amanda claimed otherwise, holding onto Rachel’s dying confession as proof. But doubt crept in—into my memories, into my marriage, into my heart. I asked Daniel to leave,
needing space to breathe, to think. In the silence that followed, I realized how deeply betrayal could echo even when it wasn’t certain. A friend reminded me: if Rachel had truly wanted peace, she would’ve told me the truth before she died. That silence spoke louder than any confession. When the DNA test finally came back, it confirmed what Daniel had insisted all along—he wasn’t Lily’s father. But by then, something far more fragile had been tested: trust.