Loneliness can make a man do things he never imagined. Things that, in his most disciplined, most morally upright state of mind he would never conceive. I used to wonder and even judge what could possibly make a man cheat on his wife. I had heard stories, shrugged at them and thought, “He must have been weak or unprincipled” until it happened to me. Mine wasn’t lust. It wasn’t lack of love. It was the dangerous combination of loneliness and boredom.
When my bank transferred me out of state to head a new branch, I did the responsible thing. I sat down with my wife Ifedi, and we talked it through like partners. We weighed the pros and cons. The money was good — much better than my current salary. We were halfway through building our dream home and this new position promised to help us finish it faster.
We agreed on a plan. I would travel and settle into the new job. I’d come home every few weeks then she would bring the kids to visit during the holidays. It was supposed to be a manageable arrangement.
The first few weeks were fine… busy even. A new team, new systems and a mountain of work kept me distracted. But soon enough, the evenings stretched out in silence. My apartment echoed with it. Video calls with the kids weren’t the same. And the distance between Ifedi and I, though physical began to feel emotional too.
Then came Eka.
She was my assistant branch manager — efficient, sharp-witted and good at her job. She had an easy laugh that was quite infectious. At first, it was harmless coffee in the morning, team lunches, light teasing. Then it shifted. I started looking forward to her presence more than I should. We stayed late at work often, talking. One night, I dropped her off at her place and I didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want me to either. One night turned into several and just like that, I became the man I never thought I’d be. It didn’t feel like betrayal at the time. It felt like escape from the silence at my apartment. But guilt has a way of creeping in quietly, like a slow leak under the door. It doesn’t announce itself.
I ended it one evening. Sat her down, told her it couldn’t continue. That it was a mistake. She listened quietly, eyes unreadable. Then she smiled slightly and said, “Okay.” She didn’t ask any question. She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg. She just went back to work like nothing had happened. That even made it worse somehow but I didn’t let it bother me.
Months passed. We still worked together but the air between us grew thick. Then one afternoon, I noticed something — a bulge beneath her dress. I told myself it could be anything. But week after week, it grew. And my silence grew with it. Eka was pregnant.
When the baby boy arrived, I didn’t need a test to confirm what my eyes already knew. He looked just like me. My nose. My jawline. My blood. But Eka never said a word. Not once. She went about her business like nothing happened. She never asked for support. Never hinted. Never acknowledged the past. So I didn’t either.
Shortly after that, I got an offer from another bank — a promotion in a different region. I took it without hesitation. It felt like a clean slate. I resigned, packed my things and severed all ties. I deleted contacts and moved forward. I returned home and gave myself fully to my family. I became a better husband and a more attentive father.
Years passed.
Then came the vacation.
We were planning a family trip abroad, the kids were excited. There was a visa requirement: DNA confirmation was part of the immigration process. “A mere formality,” they said.
The results arrived in a sealed envelope, ordinary on the outside but the contents detonated something in my chest. None of the children I raised were mine. Not one.
I couldn’t breathe. I read the report again. And again. And again. The world around me fell silent. My vision blurred. And when I finally confronted Ifedi, all she could do was weep. But her tears didn’t come with explanations that made sense.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, over and over.
She didn’t even offer a confession. It’s not as of that mattered anyway. She just kept on apologising. The children, all three of them had been born before I ever left town. Before the transfer. Before Eka. Which means our marriage had been built on a lie from the very beginning. The betrayal ran deeper than I could ever imagine.
I packed a bag and left the house that night. Not in anger. Not even in heartbreak. Just a heavy numbness.
And for the first time in years, I thought about Eka. About the quiet way she walked away. About the boy who bore my face and name only in blood. I had walked away from one truth only to have another one explode in my face.
I wasn’t sure she still lived there. Six years had passed. But something inside me needed to know — needed to see.
So I packed a small bag, booked the earliest flight and landed by noon. From the airport, I flagged down a cab and gave the driver the address.
When we arrived, I stood outside the house for a while. I did the sign of the cross. Then crossed my fingers and knocked.
Moments later, the door opened.
Eka stood there in a plain t-shirt and shorts, a faint smile on her lips but the moment her eyes met mine, the smile vanished. Her entire body stiffened. She stepped outside, closing the door gently behind her and folded her arms across her chest.
“What do you want?” she asked, voice flat.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Every line I had practiced on the flight disappeared. I swallowed hard, then whispered, “I came to see you… and him.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Him who?”
“My son. Our son.”
A cold, sharp laugh escaped her lips. “You’re a joker. You disappear for six years then you show up at my door, spitting rubbish from that gutter you call a mouth? How dare you.”
“I know I hurt you, Eka,” I said quickly, “That’s why I’m here. To say I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine. Say your sorry and get the hell out of my house.”
“Eka, I’m sorry. And I’m willing to do anything to show you how sorry I am.”
“You don’t have to prove anything Mr man. Just leave me and my son alone.”
“But he’s my son too.”
She choked on a laugh.
“Your son? Says who?”
“He looks like me.”
“And so what if he does?”
“He’s mine, Eka and I know it.”
She stepped forward, her voice low and cutting. “Only a mother knows who the real father of her child is.”
“I want a DNA test,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” she replied coolly. “Get ready to make a fool of yourself.”
She turned to walk back inside but then stopped at the doorway and glanced back at me.
“Don’t ever come here again. Or you’ll be sorry.”
The door shut behind her firm and final.
I stood there for a long time, numb.
Her words echoed in my head like thunder,
“Only a mother knows. Get ready to make a fool of yourself.”
I walked back to the waiting cab in silence, more confused than when I arrived. What did she mean? Was it possible the boy wasn’t mine either?
And if there was even a chance she was right — was I ready to face that truth?
Or would it be better to never know?
The flight back home felt longer than the first. I went to see Eka certain of one thing… that the child was mine but now I was confused. I checked into a hotel near the airport and sat on the edge of the bed, staring into space.
What if she was bluffing?
What if she was angry and just wanted to shake me?
But what if she wasn’t?
I thought about the boy again. That picture I saw online. The resemblance was too strong. The nose. The eyes. The shape of his chin. But blood doesn’t lie!
And if I went through with the test… I had to be ready for the truth. One that could either give me a second chance or destroy what was left of my dignity.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I walked to the window, looked out at the blinking lights in the distance and whispered to myself,
“You asked for the truth. Now go and find it.”
The next morning, I made the call to a private clinic that handled confidential paternity testing.
“I need to schedule a DNA test,” I said.
“Will both parties be available?” the nurse asked.
I hesitated. “Just the child. I’ll handle the rest.”
It took another week of back and forth, legal clearances and paperwork. Eka never responded to my messages but surprisingly she allowed the boy to be swabbed.
No drama. No threats. Just quiet cooperation — the kind that made me even more nervous. Then came the waiting… Two weeks.
Two weeks of pacing my living room like a man on trial. Of checking my email every hour. Of praying and questioning.
Then the result came. I sat at the dining table, laptop open. Hands trembling.
I opened the file. Read the words. Then read them again.
Probability of paternity: 0.00%
I dropped back in the chair. Breathless.
Not mine. The boy wasn’t mine. I could feel the air trapped in my chest. I was breathless. I thought I was going to pass out.
I had barely recovered from the shock of the DNA test with Eka’s son when the memory of the first betrayal slapped me again.
Three children.
Three children I loved, raised, paid school fees for, lost sleep over. Three children who bore no trace of my blood.
I remembered sitting at the clinic that day waiting for routine vacation clearance. The nurse had said it casually — “It’s standard procedure, sir. Just a quick check to confirm you’re biologically related, since you’re traveling as a family.”
I hadn’t even blinked. Why would I?
I had changed diapers. I had rocked those children to sleep. Helped with homework. Nursed them through fevers.
Then the bombshell.
“There’s a zero percent probability of paternity.”
I insisted on a retest. A second opinion. Then a third. All said the same thing: You are not the father.
When I confronted Ifedi, she had collapsed into tears. Said it was complicated. That she never meant to lie to me. That she thought the kids were mine. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even curse.
I was just numb.
And now, Eka too. That child isn’t mine.
Two women. Two completely different lives. Same ending.
“Low sperm count”. The doctor’s words had confirmed it. This is who I am.
I stood in front of the mirror that night, staring at the man who had built dreams on quicksand. A man who gave his heart, his money, his loyalty only to realize none of it had roots.
