– He’s nothing like me! – yelped the cheesy soap opera character on the screen. – Are you blind? He’s your spitting image!
Victor forced a smirk and shot a glance at his wife. This was her idea—tea and telly for the evening. If someone had told him then that this very melodrama would crack his family apart, he’d have laughed in their face.
– You know, I get where he’s coming from, – Victor muttered coolly, eyes glued to the screen. – My boys don’t take after me either. Not a single one. All four of them—carbon copies of you. Maybe I should get a DNA test too, eh?
– Hilarious, – Rita winced. – What next?
– Dead serious. I know the truth. The kids aren’t mine.
– What rubbish! Who told you that?!
– A colleague. Saw our family photo and said, ‘You sure they’re yours?’ And you know what? It hit me—they’re not. Not in looks, not in personality.
Rita paled. Her chest tightened with hurt, anger, and panic. Twenty years together—storms, celebrations, illnesses, exams, childbirth. And now… one glance at a photo, and he trusts a stranger over her.
– You honestly think I’d lie to you for two decades? That I’d saddle you with someone else’s kids?! Have you lost the plot?!
– Enough with the act! Look at them! Mini yous, every one! What am I, their uncle?!
– Who is she? – Rita’s voice turned glacial. – The woman who’s put this nonsense in your head?
– What woman? It was a bloke! A mate from work! Been through it himself.
– Right. And you—like a leaf in the wind. First whisper, and you’re gone. Filing for divorce, then?
– Absolutely, – he said calmly. – I want the test. If none of them are mine—that’s it. ‘Father’ column stays blank.
The kids, upon learning Dad doubted his own blood, gave him the silent treatment. The eldest, eighteen, vowed never to call him ‘Dad’ again. The youngest, just five, blinked up at him baffled. – Daddy, are you cross?
The family crumbled. Friends, relatives, coworkers—all stunned. Rita was devastated; Victor, stubborn, deaf to reason. And the real culprit? Alice. The new girl at work. Young, ambitious, pearly white grin, with the instincts of a fox.
– Don’t take this wrong, – she’d whispered over coffee. – Just odd, isn’t it? The kids got nothing from you. Not a single trait. Happens, though…
At first, he fumed. Then doubted. Then believed. Fast forward—court, swabs, tests. Four results: Victor Miller—biological father.
Alice wept, begged forgiveness, swore it was love, not malice. He married her a week after the divorce.
But the fresh start fizzled. Workplace ostracism. Sacked swiftly. Alice too. Friends vanished. Neighbours muttered curses. Soon enough, Alice packed up and left—‘couldn’t handle the heat.’
He tried crawling back. Knocked on the familiar door.
– Sorry, – Rita said. – We’re fine without you.
And Victor stood alone. No family. No mates. No kids—who, as it turned out, were far more like him than he’d ever realised.
