Chapter 3: A Child I Never Knew

The investigation report said I had a six-year-old child—and that I’d never once stepped up as a parent. It said my background check was marked ‘unqualified’ due to a so-called seriously improper lifestyle. I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me.

I gripped the report in both hands, my knuckles white. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I read and reread the lines, convinced there had to be some mistake.

This wasn’t real life—it was the kind of mess you’d see on daytime TV. Gritting my teeth, I flipped to the back, desperate for some clue in the attached evidence.

A photocopy of my official family documents. Besides my parents and me, there was a page for a boy named “Eli Quinn,” born six years ago. There was even a DNA paternity test linking me to Eli.

Every detail matched—my Social Security number, my old elementary school address, every fact about me. It was like someone had rewritten my life story without asking.

If I’d been confident before, now I started to doubt everything. Was I losing my memory? Was this some kind of parallel universe? Did I have a child I didn’t know about?

But I’d never even had a girlfriend. And I was sure I’d never donated sperm. The timeline didn’t add up—six years ago, I was a freshman in college, still figuring out how to do my own laundry.

I racked my brain for any wild party, any blackout night, but nothing fit. I ruled out every possibility. So where did this child come from?

With the background check in shambles and so much time wasted, everyone else had already finished their medical exams, and the office had announced the final hiring results. Friends posted their job offers on Instagram, every notification a fresh punch in the gut.

I’d already resigned from my old company as they requested, boxed up my things, handed in my badge. Every step out of that office felt like erasing a future I’d already pictured a hundred times.

Now I had no new job, and no way to explain what happened. I felt powerless, like fate was mocking me. The walls of my bedroom pressed in, Ohio rain drumming all night on my window.

I locked my door and sat alone for a whole day and night, scrolling through old photos—birthday parties, road trips, study nights in Austin—searching for any clue that might make sense of this mess.

My parents didn’t disturb me, but I heard them pacing outside my door again and again. Mom’s slippers, Dad’s heavy steps, worried voices drifting through the hall.

Even for their sake, I knew I had to pull myself together. I couldn’t just sit here and take it. I had to get answers.

Besides, if I wanted to apply for any other job, I’d need to pass a background check. My resume was turning into a blank page.

At dawn, I gathered all the evidence and drove straight to the police. I left a note on the kitchen counter so my parents wouldn’t panic, then hit the road as the sun broke through the clouds.