– He doesn’t look anything like me! – shouted the character from the cheap telly drama. – Are you blind? He’s your spitting image!
Victor gave a strained smile and glanced at his wife. It was her idea to spend the evening with tea and a show. If someone had told him this “soap opera” would tear his family apart, he’d have laughed in their face.
– I actually get where he’s coming from, – Victor said coldly, eyes fixed on the screen. – My sons don’t look like me either. Not a single one. Four of them—all carbon copies of you. Maybe I should get a DNA test too.
– Hilarious, – Rita grimaced. – What’s next?
– I’m serious. I know the truth. The kids aren’t mine.
– What rubbish! Who told you that?!
– A colleague. He saw our family photo and asked, ‘You sure they’re yours?’ And you know what? I realised—no. They don’t look like me. Not in looks, not in temper.
Rita paled. Her chest tightened with hurt, anger, and panic. Twenty years together. Through thick and thin—struggles, joys, illnesses, exams, childbirth. And now… all it took was one bloke’s comment for him to doubt.
– You really believe I’d deceive you for two decades? Force someone else’s kids on you?! Are you mad?!
– Stop pretending! Look at them—they’re all you! What am I, their uncle?
– Who is she? – Rita’s voice turned icy. – The woman who put this nonsense in your head?
– It’s not a woman! A mate from work! He’s been through it himself.
– Right. And you—like a schoolboy. First whisper and you crumble. So, divorce then?
– Yeah, – he said flatly. – I want the test. If none of them are mine—that’s it. Let ‘father’ be blank on their records.
When the kids found out their dad doubted them, they stopped speaking to him. The eldest, eighteen, swore he’d never call him ‘Dad’ again. The youngest, just five, stared up at him, confused. – Daddy, are you cross?
The family fell apart. Friends, relatives, colleagues—all shocked. Rita was heartbroken; Victor, stubborn, deaf to reason. The real cause? A girl named Alice, new at work—young, ambitious, with a gleaming smile and a hunter’s instincts.
– Don’t take this the wrong way, – she murmured over coffee. – Just odd how the kids got nothing from you. Not a single trait. Happens, I suppose…
First, he was angry. Then doubtful. Then convinced. Then—court, tests, results. Four confirmations: Victor Miller—biological father.
Alice wept, begged forgiveness, swore it was love, not malice. Victor married her a week after the divorce.
But the new life crumbled. Work turned hostile. They sacked him quickly. Alice too. Friends vanished. Neighbours sneered. Then Alice packed her things and left—‘couldn’t handle the pressure.’
He tried to come back. Knocked on the familiar door.
– Sorry, – Rita said. – We don’t need you anymore. We’re fine.
And Victor was left alone. No family. No mates. No children—who, as it turned out, were far more like him than he’d ever realised.
