The mahogany conference table in Mr. Henderson’s office was so polished I could see the reflection of my own exhaustion. Across from me sat Lydia, my older sister—or rather, the person who had spent the last three weeks ensuring everyone knew she was the “rightful” heir to the collision repair empire our father, Jack, had built from the ground up.
Dad had been gone for a month. A massive heart attack took him in the driveway, wrench in hand. I was the one who found him. I was the one who tried to revive him. Lydia? Lydia was in Cabo, and she didn’t fly back until the will was scheduled to be read.
“Can we get this over with?” Lydia checked her watch, a Cartier piece Dad had bought her for her thirtieth birthday. I wore a plastic digital watch I’d bought myself at a pharmacy. That was the dynamic. Lydia was the golden child, the one who looked like Mom, the one who got the private schools and the shiny cars. I was the grease-monkey, the one who looked like nobody in particular, who dropped out of college to help Dad run the shop when his arthritis got bad.
Mr. Henderson, a man whose jowls seemed to weigh more than his conscience, cleared his throat. “As you know, Jack’s will was updated six months ago.”
Lydia smirked. “Right. The update where he finally realized who actually deserves the estate.”
“Actually,” Henderson said, his eyes darting to me nervously. “The estate is to be divided evenly. Fifty-fifty. Including the business, the house, and the liquid assets.”
Lydia’s smirk vanished. She stood up, her chair scraping violently against the floor. “Excuse me? Fifty-fifty? With him?” She pointed a manicured finger at me. “Absolutely not. I contest this.”
“Lydia, please,” I said quietly. “Dad wanted us to share it. I just want to keep the shop running.”
“You want a free ride!” she snapped. “You’ve been leeching off him for years, pretending to be the dutiful son. But we all know the truth, don’t we?” She reached into her designer bag and slammed a manila envelope onto the table. “I found these in Mom’s vanity after she passed. Letters. From her ‘friend’ in Chicago. The dates line up perfectly with your birthday, Dan. Not mine.”
My stomach dropped. I knew Mom and Dad had a rocky patch years ago, but this accusation was new.
“I invoked the Paternity Clause,” Lydia declared, her voice dripping with triumph. “I spoke to Henderson last week. If any beneficiary is proven not to be of Jack’s bloodline, they are disinherited immediately. The assets revert to the remaining biological issue.”
Henderson nodded slowly. “She is correct, Daniel. She demanded a DNA comparison against the sample we have on file from your father’s medical records. The results came in this morning.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. I had never doubted who my father was. He taught me how to throw a baseball, how to fix a transmission, how to shave. But Lydia’s confidence was terrifying. If she was right, I wasn’t just losing the money; I was losing my identity. I was losing my dad all over again.
“Read it,” Lydia commanded, crossing her arms. “Read it and let him get the hell out of my building.”
Henderson picked up a sealed envelope. He broke the wax seal. The sound seemed to echo like a gunshot in the silent room. He unfolded the paper, adjusting his glasses. He read in silence for a moment, his brow furrowing. Then he read it again.
He looked up. He didn’t look at me. He looked at Lydia.
“Well?” Lydia held out her hand. “Give me the paper so I can call security.”
“Ms. Sterling,” Henderson said, his voice shaking slightly. “The test results are… conclusive.”
“obviously,” she huffed.
“The test compares the DNA markers of the deceased, Jack Sterling, against two subjects: Daniel Sterling and Lydia Sterling.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I gripped the edge of the table.
“Subject One, Daniel Sterling,” Henderson read. “Probability of paternity: 99.9998%. Daniel is Jack’s biological son.”
The air left my lungs in a rush. I slumped back, tears stinging my eyes. I was his son. I was really his son.
Lydia froze. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Then, her face twisted in confusion. “Wait. If he’s his son… then the letters… Maybe Mom didn’t go through with it. Fine. So we split it fifty-fifty. Whatever.” She grabbed her bag, ready to storm out, defeated but still rich.
“Sit down, Ms. Sterling,” Henderson said. His tone was different now. Harder.
“Excuse me?”
“I haven’t read the results for Subject Two.”
Lydia paused. “Subject Two? Me? Why did you test me? I didn’t ask to be tested!”
“Standard procedure,” Henderson said, his eyes cold. “To ensure the baseline of the paternal sample is accurate, and in cases of dispute involving the ‘biological issue’ clause, all claimants are processed to prevent fraud. It was in the document you signed to initiate the test against Daniel.”
“I don’t need a test! I look just like him!” Lydia shrieked, her voice cracking. “I have his eyes!”
“Subject Two, Lydia Sterling,” Henderson read, his voice devoid of emotion. “Probability of paternity: 0.0%.”
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. The clock on the wall ticked loudly. Tick. Tick. Tick.
“That’s a lie,” Lydia whispered. “That’s a lie! I was his favorite! I was the firstborn!”
“The science is irrefutable,” Henderson said. “It appears the letters you found… they didn’t align with Daniel’s birth, Lydia. They aligned with yours.”
Lydia collapsed into her chair. She looked small, suddenly. The arrogance, the posture, the venom—it all evaporated, leaving a stranger in a designer suit. She had tried to weaponize our mother’s infidelity to destroy me, only to find out she was the product of it.
“The Paternity Clause is strict,” Henderson continued, closing the folder. “As you are not the biological issue of Jack Sterling, and the will specifies ‘biological children,’ you are hereby removed from the inheritance.”
“He knew,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “He must have known. He treated me like a princess… and he knew I wasn’t his?”
“He loved you,” I said, my voice hoarse. I didn’t feel triumph. I didn’t feel the vindictive joy I thought I would. I just felt sad. “He loved you enough to never tell you. He loved you enough to raise you as his own.”
She looked at me, her eyes wild with panic. “Dan… Danny… you can’t let them do this. You can’t take everything. I have debts. I have the mortgage on the condo.”
I stood up. I looked at the sister who had bullied me, belittled me, and tried to erase me from our family history five minutes ago. I looked at the woman who wanted to leave me with nothing.
“You wanted to rewrite the story, Lydia,” I said softly. “You just didn’t read the ending first.”
I turned to Henderson. “Give her the car,” I said. “And the condo. Sign the shop and the rest over to me.”
“Daniel, you don’t have to—” Henderson started.
“I know,” I said, walking toward the door. “But Dad raised me better than she thinks he did.”
I walked out into the bright afternoon sun, leaving Lydia sobbing over a piece of paper that proved blood doesn’t make a family—but greed can certainly break one.
