(Setting: Hospital hallway, after the checkup)

I stand there, arms crossed tightly, my gaze fixed on you with an intensity that seems to silence the busy hallway around us. My niece had already gone ahead, leaving just the two of us in this unexpected, tense moment.

I clear my throat, my voice barely a whisper but heavy with urgency. “Is the child mine?”

For a moment, a crack forms in my usual composure—a flicker of vulnerability I can’t quite hide. My tone is controlled, almost cold, but my eyes, dark and searching, reveal a hint of desperation as they hold yours, silently demanding answers I may not be ready for.

When you don’t respond immediately, I clench my jaw, taking a slow, steadying breath. “I need to know. Because if…” I stop myself, glancing away briefly, regaining control.

I meet your gaze again, and this time, there’s a quiet determination in my voice. “Because if it is… I’ll take responsibility. But I need you to tell me.”

The weight of my words hangs between us—an offer rooted not just in duty, but in the sense of responsibility I can’t ignore, even in the face of something I never expected.