My mother kicked me out of the house the very night she found out I was pregnant. Five years went by and she never contacted me, nor had she ever seen her grandchild. Then, after meeting the baby’s father, she wanted to come back into my life.

We talked through what came next while my hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold. I expected him to push for immediate involvement with Janna, family visits, and big plans. Instead, he surprised me by suggesting we start with legal paternity confirmation before anything else.

He said he wanted everything official and protected. He said Janna and I deserved security after making it alone for so long. Two days later, we met with Leah Mercer in her downtown office, the kind of place with thick carpet, quiet elevators, and framed law degrees covering the walls.

She was younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, wearing a practical suit and a no-nonsense expression. Leah explained that Alessandro had hired her specifically to represent my interests, not his. She worked for me alone, even though he was paying her fees.

She walked us through the process for a court-admissible DNA test, the kind that would hold up legally if we ever needed it. It felt strange having a lawyer who answered only to me, but also safer than I had expected. Leah asked detailed questions about what I wanted protected and what worried me most, taking notes on a yellow legal pad.