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It started three months ago, seemingly innocuous. My daughter, Tiffany, came home buzzing with excitement about her genetics unit. She needed cheek swabs from both of us to map recessive traits for her school project.
“It’s for the science fair, Mom! We just swab and send it in!” she said, holding the sterile kit like it was a treasure chest.
I agreed immediately. This seemed harmless. Fun, even.
But when my husband, Greg, walked in, everything changed. He had just come home from work, loosening his tie. Normally, he greeted Tiffany with warmth and playfulness, but today, his face went rigid.
“Hey, bug. What’s all this?” he asked, forcing a smile.
“My genetics project!” Tiffany chirped. “I need a sample from you and Mom. Open up!”
Greg froze. His hand was halfway to the refrigerator door, and for a moment, I thought he might faint. The warmth drained from his face, replaced by a gray pallor I had never seen before.
“Dad! Open up!” Tiffany repeated, holding out the swab.
“No!” His voice changed, flat and cold. He snatched the kit from her hands and crushed the box in his fist. “We’re not putting our DNA into some database. Do you know what they do with that information? It’s surveillance!”
He threw the kit in the trash. Tiffany cried that night. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, confused. Greg was usually calm, rational, a man who prided himself on reason. This was not him.
The Suspicion Builds
Greg’s extreme reaction nagged at me. It didn’t fit with the man I knew—the man who keeps Alexa devices in every room, who shares personal information online without hesitation. And yet, when it came to a harmless school project, he panicked.
We had conceived Tiffany through IVF after years of “unexplained infertility.” Greg had handled all the clinic paperwork and always reassured me that everything was fine. I trusted him.
But that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Something significant.