“This isn’t my child,” he says through clenched teeth.
And I cover my already rounded belly with my palm.
— Myron! This is your son! I can do a DNA test.
Why am I humiliating myself to the last? It’s clear as day—we’re not needed by him.
— Don’t trouble yourself. He’ll surely be a fake. And I’ll never believe that you’re pregnant by me.
He shoves me, and I fall. I rip my knees until they bleed. The car door slams nearby. And I’m left sitting on the asphalt, gulping down dust from under his wheels.