My Father Signed Papers Saying I Wasn’t His Son. I Used Them When He Sued Me For Support Now He Is..

“So, Your Honor, we have a dilemma. Either Gerald Ashford committed perjury and fraud 10 years ago when he told the probate court that my client was not his son, or he is lying to this court today when he claims my client is his son.”

“It cannot be both ways. The law does not permit him to be a father when it is profitable and a stranger when it is convenient.”

“He made his choice a decade ago. He signed documents, he swore oaths, he cashed checks. He doesn’t get to unring that bell just because the money ran out.”

Judge Morrison picked up the old affidavit and read it slowly, his expression unreadable. Then he picked up the new DNA test that Gerald had submitted.

He looked back and forth between the two documents like a man comparing a receipt to a bill and finding the numbers didn’t match.

“Mr. Prescott,”

the judge said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register.

“Did your client inform you of this prior affidavit?”

Prescott’s face had gone a sickly shade of gray. He looked at Gerald with an expression of dawning horror, like a man who had just realized he had stepped into quicksand.

“No, Your Honor,”

Prescott said.

“I was not informed of this document. I was not made aware of these prior proceedings.”

“Mr. Ashford,”

Judge Morrison addressed my father directly.

“Did you sign this affidavit?”

Gerald shifted in his wheelchair. He looked older than he had just minutes before.

The arrogance was cracking, revealing something desperate and cornered underneath.

“I… I was upset at the time,”

Gerald said, his voice raspy and weak.

“I had suspicions about my late wife. I believed things that turned out to be incorrect. The DNA evidence proves I was wrong. I am his father; that’s what matters.”

“He owes me.”

“You swore under oath,”

Judge Morrison’s voice was sharp as a blade.

“You used this document to enrich yourself at the expense of your son. You stood before the probate court and told them this man was not your child.”

“On the basis of that sworn statement, you received money that was rightfully his. You don’t get to undo a legal severance just because the money ran out.”

“But I’m his father!”

Gerald’s voice rose, cracking with something that might have been desperation or might have been rage.

“I raised him! I fed him! I put a roof over his head for 18 years! That has to count for something!”

“It counts for nothing,”

the judge’s voice cut through the courtroom like a hammer.

“Because you sold that right. You traded your fatherhood for a trust fund.”

“You cannot now claim the relationship you explicitly, legally, and under oath renounced.”

Meredith stepped forward again.

“Your Honor, I would also note that the plaintiff has just admitted on the record that he is in fact the biological father of my client.”

“This is an admission that his 2014 affidavit was false. He has essentially confessed in open court to committing fraud against the estate of his late father and perjury in the prior probate proceeding.”

She paused to let that sink in.

“While the statute of limitations for the original fraud may have passed, his submission of this current lawsuit constitutes a frivolous abuse of the court system.”

“He is attempting to use the courts to perpetuate the same scheme he began a decade ago, simply inverting the lie to suit his current financial needs.”

Judge Morrison nodded slowly. He looked at Gerald with an expression of pure, undisguised contempt, the kind of look you might give something you found on the bottom of your shoe.

“The petition for filial support is dismissed with prejudice,”

the judge ruled.

“Mr. Ashford, you are legally estopped from claiming paternity for the purpose of financial benefit, having previously denied that same paternity for the same purpose.”

“In the eyes of this court, based on your own sworn statement from 2014, you have no son.”

The gavel came down. The sound echoed through the courtroom like a gunshot.

The Final Receipt

“Furthermore,”

Judge Morrison added, leaning forward over the bench.

“I am sanctioning the plaintiff to pay all legal fees incurred by the defendant in responding to this frivolous action.”

“And Mr. Prescott, I suggest you get your client out of my courtroom before I decide to refer this affidavit to the District Attorney for a review of potential perjury charges.”

“I don’t care how old or sick he is; fraud is fraud.”

I stood up. My legs felt strange, like they belonged to someone else.

Meredith shook my hand and said something about calling her office to handle the fee recovery, but I barely heard her. I walked toward the exit without looking back at Gerald.

I could hear him behind me, his voice rising in a panicked, desperate cadence as he shouted at his lawyer. He was demanding to know how this had happened and insisting there must be something they could do.

He was threatening to file appeals and complaints and lawsuits against everyone involved. But it all sounded distant and muffled, like noise from a television playing in another room.

I pushed through the courthouse doors and walked out into the gray November afternoon. The cold air hit my face, and I breathed it in deeply; it tasted like freedom.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, a text from an unknown number.

“Ethan, I know you have money. You can’t let me starve. I’m your flesh and blood.”

I looked at the message for a long moment. I felt a familiar twinge somewhere in my chest, the old conditioned response and the trained need to please him.

I felt the need to prove my worth and to earn the approval he had never given freely. But then I thought about the affidavit.