I believed that too, until a clinic billing notice accidentally arrived at my old email. It listed an embryo transfer date two weeks after my divorce had been filed.
My embryo.
My consent form.
My signature.
Except I had never signed it.
So when Patricia leaned closer and whispered, “That little girl is proof my son chose right,” I finally smiled.
“Is that what you think?”
Before she could respond, the clinic door opened.
A tall man in a navy suit entered, carrying a sealed evidence envelope. Patricia turned, and all the color left her face.
She knew him.
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