It's seven in the morning. My long, black hair is a disheveled mess. I have bags under my drowsy eyes. My breasts are swollen with milk. But in many ways, I couldn't be happier. My baby is three months old, and I absolutely adore him.
I'm lying on my side on the bed with my son nestled in one arm. He's resting now, his gorgeous ruddy cheeks are just like a cherub, and his little button nose is so small and thin. It makes me think of my husband's nose, which is a lot bigger on his face, and that makes me think -- once again -- about what other features will manifest as 'our' son grows up.
The fact that it's been just over a year since another man broke into my house, climbed into my bed, and raped me is hard to process. It still comes to me in dreams and the occasional flashback, but now I have a loveable reminder of that event resting by my side.
Every time I'm alone with him, I can't help but scrutinize his features in an effort to figure out what the man who raped me looks like. It's about as insightful as reading tea leaves. There's no way his paternal features will be clear until he's a few years old.
That's a relief; in the same way that realizing the iceberg your rudderless ship is doomed to hit is actually a few miles away is a relief. Our daughters both resemble me more than my husband, but they still both inherited his distinctive nose. He may need glasses to see clearly, but even he won't be so blind as to notice that 'our' son doesn't have his signature nose.
Lying immobile is making me feel tired again, and I close my eyes as I start to doze off. Almost immediately, the image of my baby with skin as black as fresh coffee pops spontaneously into my head. It makes me flinch a little, if only from the insecurity of discovery.
That would have been a spectacular way to end my marriage. My husband watching aghast as a baby with African features and richly dark skin emerges from between the strained pale lips of my pussy. One last push and my imaginary black baby slides smoothly out of my lawfully wedded vagina, all of it caught in glorious 5K definition on my cuckold husband's initiative.
I'm so much more at ease with that and similar fantasies now that I've actually given birth and know for a fact that my rapist is the same ethnicity as my husband. The prospect of birthing a Black baby aroused and terrified me in equal measure for no other reason than my secret would have been revealed in my most vulnerable moment. If I believed in a higher power, I'd thank that power every day that my baby boy came out White.
Well, three quarters White. I'm proud of my maternal Japanese heritage, and I'm happy to see the subtle signs of Asian ancestry in my son's face, just like his two older half-sisters.
My thoughts return to my rapist and the ever-present fear that he'll return. He got into our home once before and took me by surprise. Six months later, he was watching me masturbate in the front room. That means he's overdue for another visit, and that scares me even more than my husband finding out that 'his' son was fathered by another man.
I try not to think about it. What does he have to gain by returning? Forcing another baby into me? Why blow his cover and the truth about the baby's paternity just to have his way with the child's mother again? I want to rationalize away any thought or chance that he might return for a second round, but I can't quite banish the fear.
I need to get up and stretch my legs, so I rouse myself and carefully pick up my sleeping baby before carrying him to his crib and placing him inside. He doesn't even stir as I lay him on his back and gaze down at him with a loving smile.
Just then, my phone buzzes. I retrieve it from my bedside table and find that there's an email waiting for me with a secure link. I feel a knot in my stomach when I see the subject line and sender, and I quickly shuffle into the bathroom. Leaving the baby alone for two minutes won't hurt, and I really need to check this email in private.
My husband is downstairs getting ready to take the girls to school, but I lock the bathroom door behind me just in case before opening the email and tapping the link. It takes me to an encrypted webpage with the official results from the test.
The first result reads: 'Subject 1 and subject 2 are full biological sisters.'
Even though the company promises that everything is encrypted, I wasn't comfortable handing over my daughters' actual names to them, so they were anonymized as 'subject 1' and 'subject 2'. It would have made more sense to swab my husband's cheek for DNA, but since we share a bed and responsibility for a newborn, I decided that was too risky.
The first line doesn't come as a surprise; before that fateful night, a year ago, I'd never cheated on my husband, so I know perfectly well that my daughters were both fathered by my husband. And even if there had been another man, I can see their paternity in their faces.
I take a deep breath and scroll down to the second result, which reads: 'Subject 3 is a biological half-brother to subject 1 and subject 2'.
I thought I had braced myself to find out what I already knew, but it still causes the knot in my stomach to tighten painfully. I now have scientific proof that my baby son was fathered by my rapist, conceived on the other side of the closed door, and born in this very room.
The test results page makes clear that the webpage will only be active for 24 hours before it's deleted permanently. Good. I now know what I needed to know, so I delete the email.
I sit down on the fluffy bathroom mat and rest my back against the side of the expensive jacuzzi tub, the one my cuck hubby paid two grand for and where he filmed me giving birth to another man's child. This secret will weigh on me for the rest of my life, but at least he'll give me and my children a comfortable life in the meantime.
I gaze around at the tiled floor, the marble and silver fixtures, and the carved wood paneling. I look up and see a framed document hanging next to the bathroom mirror. It bears my name and intricate calligraphy in Latin and English, certifying that I completed my bachelor's degree in computer science with a minor in cybersecurity at Carnegie Mellon.
I sigh wistfully as I gaze at the elaborate document, wondering how I went from being a coding and hacking whiz to a stay-at-home mom of three and a rape victim. Part of the answer lies in the less-than-glamorous reality of my first career choice, but the rest was just life.
With three kids to look after, maybe I should brush up on my skills again.
***
The day passes uneventfully, and it's great to know that it's a Friday with the weekend ahead. My daughters are excited for the weekend as well, and they eagerly chow down pizza rolls for supper before sitting down in front of the TV for a movie. Their father and I let them have their TV time while we look after the baby.
