906 My Sister Said She Was Pregnant With My Husband’s Baby.

Three weeks later, the snow lay heavy and silent across the valley.

Christmas was approaching. Eleanor had strung warm white fairy lights along the porch railing, and a wreath made of fresh balsam fir hung on the front door. I had spent the afternoon clearing the driveway with the snowblower, the physical labor working out the last lingering remnants of tension from my muscles.

The postman’s truck rumbled down the street, stopping briefly at the curb before continuing on its route.

I wiped the frost from my eyelashes, turned off the snowblower, and walked toward the mailbox. Inside were the usual seasonal greeting cards, utility statements, and a flyer from the local hardware store.

And at the very bottom lay a heavy manila envelope.

It was addressed directly to me:

*Captain Diana Ross (Ret.)*

*142 Elmwood Drive, Oakridge*

There was no return address. No postal barcode. No government franking. Only a bright red courier wax seal on the back flap, stamped with an unfamiliar insignia: an eagle gripping a double-headed serpent.

A strange chill—colder than the sub-zero December wind—ran down the length of my spine. In the military, unmetered deliveries delivered by hand were never good news.

I walked back inside, stomping the snow from my boots in the mudroom. Eleanor was in the kitchen preparing coffee, and Thomas was asleep in the parlor.

I went into my temporary study, pulled a pocket knife from my utility belt, and carefully sliced through the top of the heavy envelope.

Inside were three items:

A certified laboratory DNA report with a Department of Defense tracking seal;