The Househusband Chapter 03

The Househusband Chapter 03 Probability
The next day, someone edited the party footage and posted it on TikTok. “Husband dumps wife at baby’s birthday, punches guest.” It hit a million views in twelve hours.
The comments were one-sided and vicious. “This man is a monster.” “Poor Charlotte and baby Leo.” “Someone find this guy’s address.” “I hope he loses everything.”
My architecture studio got buried under a wave of one-star reviews. My phone filled up with threatening texts from numbers I didn’t recognize. Someone posted my business address on a subreddit about bad husbands.
I turned off comments on everything but kept my phone on. I was waiting.
Day two, my inbox was flooded. Three clients canceled their projects — one with a polite email, one with a form letter from their legal team, and one who just ghosted entirely.
A fourth sent an email saying they “needed to reassess the partnership given the current public perception.” My business partner James called and asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine. He didn’t sound convinced.
“Look, man, I don’t know what’s going on, but the phones are ringing and none of it’s good.”
The building superintendent called to tell me that someone had spray-painted “ABUSER” on the front of my studio. I asked him to clean it off. He said he already had, but it would probably happen again.
“People are worked up,” he said. “You might want to lay low for a while.”
Day three, afternoon. Someone pounded on my hotel room door.
I opened it and a pack of reporters pushed their way inside. Camera flashes exploded in my face. Microphones jabbed toward my mouth. A woman from a gossip site had her phone out, livestreaming.
“Mr. Cole, why did you announce divorce at your son’s birthday party?”
“Is it true you were unfaithful to your wife?”
“Do you feel any guilt about what you did?”
“Can you confirm you punched a guest at the party?”
They crowded the small room, stepping on each other’s feet, angling for the best shot. The hotel security guard was trying to push through from the hallway but there were too many of them.
More people gathered outside in the corridor, looking at me like I was a criminal who’d gotten away with something. One of the reporters — a young guy with a press badge and a nervous energy — kept repeating the same question over and over, like he thought if he asked it enough times I’d finally break.
I said: “I have nothing to say.”
That made the comment sections go nuclear. “He won’t even talk.” “Guilty silence.” “Look at his face, he doesn’t even care.”
The livestream had twelve thousand viewers watching in real time as I stood there saying nothing. The reporter with the press badge turned to his camera and said, “As you can see, Mr. Cole has no comment on his actions.” He made it sound like a confession.
Right when the reporters had me backed against the wall, my parents walked in with Charlotte.
She looked pale. Like she hadn’t slept in two days. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, no makeup, wearing an oversized sweater with a coffee stain on the sleeve.
But the first thing she said when she saw me — not “how could you,” not “I want an explanation” — was:
“Ethan, are you okay?”
Her voice was barely above a whisper. Like she didn’t have the energy to talk. But she still came. Still asked about me first.
I looked at those worried eyes and shook my head. Didn’t say anything.
The reporters went wild, snapping photos. Someone shouted: “Look, she came to check on him even after what he did! She’s an angel!”
The livestream camera swung to Charlotte and zoomed in on her face. The comments on the stream were a wall of heart emojis and “protect this woman.”
Susan started crying. Richard pulled out a manila envelope and handed it to me. His hands were shaking slightly, like he’d been carrying it around for days waiting for the right moment.
“Son, your mom and I couldn’t sleep. We kept thinking, what if he’s doubting the baby? What if that’s what this is about? So we got a paternity test done through a lab Margaret’s doctor recommended. Leo is your biological son. Here’s the report. Look at it. The numbers don’t lie. Now please. Stop this before it destroys everything.”
I looked at the report in the envelope. Looked at it for a long time.
I flipped through the pages, read the lab name — a reputable clinic on the Upper West Side — checked the date, looked at the numbers. The results were clear. The conclusion at the bottom was bolded and underlined: “Probability of paternity: 99.99%.”
Then I tore it up. Slowly, page by page, the sound of ripping paper loud in the small hotel room.
Susan screamed. Richard was shaking with rage. Charlotte’s eyes went wide — the first crack in her composure I’d seen all day.
“Then what IS it about?!” Susan cried. “Tell us! Tell us something!”
Charlotte sat with her head down, tears falling onto her knees. “If you hate me that much… just tell me what I did wrong. I’ll change. I’ll do anything. I’ll go to counseling. I’ll quit my job. Whatever it takes.”
She was betting I wouldn’t say it here. Not in front of everyone. Not with cameras rolling.
She knew I’d never humiliate her publicly — the irony being that in everyone’s eyes, I already had. She was counting on my decency, the same decency she’d been exploiting for months.
She bet right.
I walked into my room and shut the door. The lock clicked into place and the noise from the hallway faded. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall for a long time.
Manhattan skyline through the window. The city lights were starting to come on, thousands of windows glowing amber in the dusk. Phone buzzed. David: “You still sure?”
“Yeah.”