I did a DNA test on my granddaughters because something in my blood was screaming that my son wasn’t their father. I thought I was going to unmask my daughter-in-law, but the result ended up pointing to someone much closer. The envelope arrived on a Tuesday, while I was warming up pancakes on the griddle. My son, Matthew, smiled at me from a photo on the wall. And when I read the first line, I felt like my whole house was collapsing on top of me.

—“No. You used him.”

I went down the stairs with the envelope clutched to my chest. In the kitchen, Chloe was standing on a chair, trying to flip a black pancake with a spatula. Alexa was coloring at the table. Matthew had just arrived from work, his shirt sweaty and a bag of sweet bread in his hand.

—“I brought donuts,” he said, smiling.

He looked at me and his smile faded.

—“Mom? What’s wrong?”

I looked at my granddaughters. Yes, my granddaughters. Because blood can scream, but love also has a voice. And those girls had called me grandma before they knew how to lie.

—“Girls,” I said, —“go up to my room and watch TV.”

—“But our snack…” Alexa protested.

—“Now, sweetie.”

Something in my tone made them obey.

When I heard the door close upstairs, I placed the envelope on the table.

Matthew looked at Brenda, who was coming down the stairs as if walking to a firing squad.

—“What’s going on?”

No one answered.

Matthew opened the envelope. He read the first page. His face changed little by little, as if someone were turning off the life inside him.

—“No,” he whispered.

Brenda stepped closer.

—“Matthew…”

He stepped back.

—“Don’t touch me.”

He read the second page. Then he looked at me.

—“What does this mean?”

I couldn’t speak.

Brenda did.

—“Julian is the dad.”

The silence that fell in that kitchen weighed more than my entire life.

Matthew let out a small, broken laugh.

—“My uncle.”

Brenda was crying uncontrollably.

—“Forgive me.”

Matthew grabbed the chair so he wouldn’t fall.

—“Alexa and Chloe?”

—“Yes,” she said.

—“Both of them?”

Brenda nodded.

Then Matthew did something that hurt me more than any scream. He stood still. Completely still. As if his body were still there, but his soul had already walked away to somewhere else.

—“How long?” he asked.

—“Since before the wedding.”

Matthew closed his eyes.

I felt nauseous.

—“Before?” he said. —“So you married me pregnant by him?”

Brenda didn’t answer.

That was the answer.

Matthew walked out of the kitchen. I followed him to the patio, where he doubled over the sink and vomited. I rubbed his back like when he was a child and had a fever.

—“Mom,” he said, his voice reduced to dust. —“What am I?”

I hugged him.

—“My son.”