Chapter 3 - LILY'S BIRTH CERTIFICATE
Lily was not adopted through an agency.
That was the first lie I had told Mike.
Not because I was ashamed.
Because he had no right to her history.
Three years after our divorce, I became Lily’s legal mother through a private guardianship that later became adoption.
Her biological birth mother was a woman named Claire Donovan.
Twenty-eight.
Single.
No family support.
She died in a car accident when Lily was eleven months old.
I knew Claire.
Barely.
She had been a patient at the county clinic where I worked.
One afternoon, she came to my desk asking for help correcting an insurance claim.
Lily sat in a stroller beside her.
Yellow blanket.
Huge brown eyes.
A month later, Claire returned.
Then again.
Eventually we became friends.
Not close.
But enough.
When Claire died, her temporary guardianship instructions named me.
I had never fully understood why.
She once said:
“You’re the only person who ever talked about Lily like she was a person instead of a problem I needed to solve.”
That had been enough.
Or so I thought.
Now I opened Lily’s birth certificate on my phone.
Claire Donovan.
Mother.
Father:
Not listed.
Mike stared.
“You’ve had this all along?”
“Yes.”
“Why would her mother choose you?”
“I thought because we were friends.”
Tiffany sat down.
“When was Lily born?”
I told her.
She closed her eyes.
“What?”
“That date…”
“Say it.”
She looked at Mike.
Then me.
“It lines up.”
My body went numb.
“No.”
“I’m not saying Lily is genetically yours.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“Yes.”
Mike whispered:
“Oh my God.”
I turned on him.
“Do not.”
“What?”
“Do not make this about you.”
“If she’s mine—”
“She is my daughter regardless.”
He stopped.
Good.
Tiffany asked:
“Did Claire ever mention Hawthorne?”
“No.”
“A fertility clinic?”
“No.”
“Surrogacy?”
“No.”
The word struck hard.
Could Claire have carried my embryo?
Without my knowledge?
That sounded impossible.
Criminal.
Absurd.
Then I remembered one conversation.
Claire once told me pregnancy had “happened in a way nobody would believe.”
I assumed abusive relationship.
She never explained.
I did not push.
I had respected her privacy.
Now I wondered whether privacy had been the hiding place for someone else’s crime.
Mike began pacing.
“I want a DNA test.”
I looked at him.
“You want?”
His voice softened.
“We need answers.”
“No. I need answers.”
“If Lily is biologically ours—”
“Ours?”
I stepped closer.
“You walked out of my life before she was conceived—or before I knew she existed. You do not get to leap from mockery at a wedding to ownership because genetics suddenly became interesting.”
Mike looked ashamed.
Finally.
Then Tiffany said:
“There may already be DNA records.”
We both turned.
“What?”
“Hawthorne required genetic screening on transferred embryos in certain disputed cases.”
“What disputed case?”
She swallowed.
“Yours.”
Then she admitted something she had apparently carried for five years.
She had copied one page before leaving Hawthorne.
A genetic confirmation report.
Patient identifiers redacted.
Embryo code:
JB-MC-06.
Jessica Bennett.
Michael Carter.
Mike’s legal name was Michael Carter.
And under implantation recipient:
CLAIRE DONOVAN.
My knees almost failed.
May you like
Tiffany whispered:
“Lily may have been your daughter before you ever met her.”
