Not Mine

He sat outside the office of the Department of Human Services. He waited for the social worker, judge, the child psychologist and all the professionals in whom he had placed his trust, his hopes and his son. The little blonde, brown eyed boy who had fallen asleep against his chest as the time stretched beyond his normal nap time. At three, Carson could sometimes skip a nap in the afternoon, but today wasn’t one of those days.

His thoughts whirled, and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply, trying to relax. The meeting should be cut and dried, a matter of routine. This was simply the final custody determination, the last in meetings and presentations which had gone on for three years. The final DNA tests had been done weeks ago, as if they had been needed. A thousand times he had been told how much the little boy looked just like him, his features nearly cloned in miniature. They walked alike, talked alike, even arched one eyebrow in question in the exact same manner. But since he had not been listed on the birth certificate as the father, had not known Carson existed until a girlfriend of the mother, a one-night stand, had called, the test was required by the courts.

This was it, the day that legally Carson would be his forever. The mother, which was the only way he could think of her, had attempted to place Carson up for adoption when he was five weeks old. A late night phone call from a friend of hers, mad at the mother over some slight, had let him know the baby was his. The mother was forced to give up the lucrative fee from the adoptive family; he had retrieved his son, never looking back.

He applied for full custody the same week. He stripped Wal-Mart of crib bedding, figured out how to make formula, worked nights to be home, and charmed ex-girlfriends into babysitting when necessary. He chuckled to himself at the memories, of how confused he had been, how clueless about babies. He laid his head back against the wall, and snuggling the little boy closer to his chest, he finally relaxed, and dozed.

He awoke to find Cooper lifting off his chest. The social worker looked at him sympathetically.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wilson. The DNA did not match.” She turned and began to walk down the hallway, the sleeping child in her arms.

“No!” he yelled, and she stopped, looking over his shoulder. “I’m very sorry. You are not his father, and legally, you have no right to him.”

His thoughts coalesced on what she had said. He screamed, and lurched to his feet. "He's not—but he’s mine! I love him"

“I’m afraid that’s not enough. It’s genetics that counts in the courts, not love.” She left, and all he could do was stare as his heart left with her.