Carlos wipes away his tears as he looks at the paternity test. His hands smooth the paper before he places it back on the table, taking a deep breath. His brown eyes lock onto mine, and then he says:“I don't want to know.”“Carlos, please,” I whisper.“Juan will always be my son, and no piece of paper will say otherwise,” Carlos says, pressing his index finger against the paper repeatedly. He hands me back the envelope, wiping his face. “He has been my son for four years, and he always will be. Juan Carlos is my son, he is a Salazar, and he always will be.”“Whatever you say,” I agree, putting the envelope away once again.“Does he know?” Carlos asks, looking at me seriously. His gaze is a sea of disappointment that I can't bear to meet.“No,” I reply, wiping my face. “He has no idea.”“If I were in his shoes, I'd want to know if I have a child out there,” Carlos claims.“Carlos, please...”“He has the right to know, Dália,” Carlos argues. “Tell him.”“Alright, I'll do that,” I affir
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