Not a Blueprint: It's the Shoe Prints That Matter

The  baby was born on March 24, 1971, at Ingalls Hospital in Harvey, Illinois. She weighed ten pounds and fifteen ounces. Gosh, that was a pretty big baby to have come through my birth canal! Surprisingly, they didn’t try to induce
my labor or attempt a C-section. The pain felt like my skin was being turned inside out. After the delivery, I stared down at her baby face. Cuddling her in my arms, I saw she had a nose like Craig’s—a pudgy one. I hadn’t seen him during the entire nine months, yet he showed up at the hospital.
At first, we just stared at each other. Then I asked, “Why are you here?”
He responded, “Oh, I came to see the baby. It’s a girl, huh?”
“Yeah, and she looks just like you,” I replied. It was apparent he didn’t want to hear that.

As he slowly backed out of the room, he asked, “Tell me the truth, you sure she’s mine?”

“Yup, and it can be proven,” I said. “I’m going to prove it to you.”
“Well, whatever works for you. I can’t be a father to her. You chose to keep the baby, so that’s the choice you’ve made.”
Again, he tried to worm his way out of our lives. But this time, the ball would be in my court. Once the DNA test was taken, the results showed he had planted the seed. And that was something he couldn’t wriggle out of!