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Killing you softly


Courtesy of Pinterest

The ghastly email came through, there you are, not so eager anymore, staring at your laptop’s LCD…

***


What beats a father’s pride. It felt right when he held your index finger with the whole of his hand the first time, there was instant inherent connection – a spark – love at first touch if you may. Things went south when you received an anonymous ‘tip’ that attempted to validate the subliminal messages that have been injecting into your thoughts, tried warding them off to no avail. Those legs aren’t ours. You know the way his ears fall on his head is just not right. That appetite is wanting, we are fellas of voracious palates, we annihilate delicacies at the sight of it, who is this that has to be worshipped to eat? Our genes are strong we always have a gap teeth where is his? Folk said alluding at something. Overtime, your assurity waned, the only thing holding It – hope. You mulled over the odds and decided to confront the dilemma, suffice it to say you couldn’t be forthright and ask her, just to play safe.


Intrusive thoughts have fed into your apprehensiveness. Dreaded ideas have incessantly harped your mind for months. Even though he is 3 years old now and you love him, you’re the dad anyway, nurtured him like you would a tree, watched him bud, watering him everyday. You have been bad at math for as long as the earth has orbited the sun. Flanked every single time, you’d write word for word, in this case number for number from the smartest person in class and you’d still fail. The most prolific tutors would try and season you for eternity and you won’t be a whiff close to a pass. But 3+4 being 9 is preposterous, one to make Einstein turn in his grave. Even your sore relationship with numbers knows it 7. It can’t be 9; not even to sisters and brethrens who believe the earth is flat. Not even to blokes in the GYM who skip from 10 to 56 when a chic mami passes by as they work their core out. Not even in an alternate universe. Not even a baker and his dozen. So what’s up with her math. Is she Dyslexic or something. If she realised she was expectant at 3 months how come she delivered 4 months later without the baby being placed under incubatory care, something wasn’t right. The frantic quest for truth was on 3 years later, you could sell your soul to the devil to unearth the truth so you cut strands of his hair and took them for DNA.


After what was eternity, the ghastly email came through, there you are, not so eager anymore, staring at your laptop’s LCD. Time slows down when you’re trepid, in reality it only took two weeks of scrunity from the hospital. Here you are contemplating whether to open it or not. Have you been a cuckold? Will your worst fears be confirmed? Will you be able to deal with the guilt of putting your family under test? Will your world implode? Ignorance is bliss? Click!

***

She avoids your eyes, gazes down guilt-ridden, and releases a defeated sigh.

“Yes, it’s true and I’m really sorry. He’s not your son,” she says.


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