Chapter 4

Heather finally realized the money had not come through on the morning of the fourth day.

She sent me three messages in a row.

[Desmond, did you forget to transfer the money this month?]

[The mortgage payment is coming up.]

[Text me back when you see this.]

I did not reply. A moment later, my phone rang.

I had just left the paternity testing center. A brown kraft paper envelope lay on the passenger seat beside me, its seal still intact.

I answered the call. Heather’s voice was already edged with anger. “Desmond, what do you mean by this? Why haven’t you transferred the money?”

“I didn’t forget.”

She fell silent, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

“I said I didn’t forget.”

There were two seconds of silence on the other end before her voice shot up. “You're really cutting off the money? Have you lost your mind?

“The mortgage is due on the 15th. Nicole’s preschool just sent out a tuition notice, and her dance classes need to be renewed, too. My credit card payment is due today. And you choose now to pull this stunt?”

I watched the stream of people passing beyond my windshield. “I’m not pulling any stunt.”

“Then what are you doing? Trying to force me to give in by holding money over my head?”

I countered with a question of my own, “Heather, does Nicole even know I’m her father?”

She was silent for a long time, then she started crying.

“Desmond, does it really matter what she calls you? Wesley has only been helping me carry some of the burden. He picks her up, takes her to events, and listens when I feel like I’m falling apart.”

“So you let my daughter call him 'daddy'?”

“It’s just a word!”

I let out a bitter laugh. “To you, it’s just a word. To me, it’s the place I’m supposed to have in her life.”

She sniffed and softened her tone. “Desmond, I know you’ve been upset since you came home. Can’t we talk this through, one step at a time? Just transfer the money first. My credit card payment is due today. If I miss it, I’ll be late.”

Of course. In the end, it always came back to money.

I opened the photo she had just sent me. It was a picture of Nicole in her dance outfit. She stood in the practice studio, smiling sweetly.

The next message was a voice recording from Heather. I tapped play. My daughter’s small, childish voice came through the speaker.

“Mr. Lowe, please don’t be mad at Mommy. Mommy’s crying.”

‘Mr. Lowe.’ After listening to that, I found myself growing strangely calm.

Heather hurried to explain on the other end of the call. “She’s still getting used to you. Please don't hold it against the child. Desmond, just send 3,000 dollars first. No, 1,500 dollars would do. I really can’t get through today without it.”

I asked, “What about Wesley?”

Her voice tightened. “Why are you bringing him into this?”

“Didn’t you say he was helping you carry the burden?”

“His studio has been having cash flow problems lately. He needs money to keep things running, too. How could I ask him for more?”

I said, “Didn’t you tell me I’d done nothing these past three years except sending money?”

Her breathing hitched. “I only said that because I was angry.”

“No. You were right.” I spoke slowly, letting each word fall with deliberate weight. “So this month, you’re not getting a dime from me.”