I hadn't been inside the Whitfield house for seven years. It still smelled of lilies and furniture polish.

Elaine sat in her armchair. Amber sat on the sofa, holding Tom's arm too tightly. Tom sat very still. I stood by the window, holding a folder of my own.

Mr Hughes placed a white envelope on the coffee table. The same spot where the photographs had been.

“Let's get this farce over with,” said Elaine.

Mr Hughes opened the envelope and read the letter inside. He read it twice. Then he took off his glasses.

“The laboratory reports that the probability of paternity is 99.99 per cent,” he said. “Thomas Whitfield is the biological father of Noah Moore.”

Nobody spoke. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked.

Tom sat down on the edge of the sofa, as if his legs had stopped working.

He put his hands over his face.