From the moment I met James, I knew his mother Evelyn would be a problem. She called me “Jennifer,” clung to James like he was her date, and made her disapproval clear in every passive-aggressive message, every uninvited visit.
We married anyway. We built a life, had a daughter—Willa—through a sperm donor, a decision made privately, maturely, and with love.
Evelyn never knew. She was always suspicious. “Where’d that hair come from?” she’d say. “Doesn’t look like anyone in our family.” I ignored it. James shielded us. We moved states away.
Then came Father’s Day dinner—both families, one table, one uneasy truce. Halfway through dessert, Evelyn stood, waving a manila folder like a weapon.
“She’s not James’s daughter. I had a DNA test done.”
