Chapter 5 - TIFFANY HAD BEEN TRYING TO FIND ME
Tiffany came to my house alone.
Mike called twelve times.
I blocked him temporarily.
Not forever.
Long enough to think.
Tiffany sat at my kitchen table while Lily slept upstairs.
She looked smaller without champagne and performance.
“My father was medical director at Hawthorne.”
“I know that now.”
“He was also part owner.”
“Did he transfer my embryo?”
“Yes.”
The word landed cleanly.
No excuse.
“Why?”
Tiffany looked sick.
“Money.”
Hawthorne had severe financial trouble.
Lawsuits.
Failed expansion.
Daniel Price began offering private reproductive arrangements to wealthy clients and desperate surrogates.
Some legitimate.
Some poorly documented.
A few apparently crossed legal and ethical lines.
My embryo became one.
“But Mike signed something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
Tiffany opened a folder.
She had kept copies.
Mike signed authorization to stop paying storage fees after our separation.
I remembered the argument.
He told me we had nothing frozen.
Why pay?
He signed a form permitting Hawthorne to “resolve remaining biological storage pursuant to prior patient directives.”
Ambiguous language.
Daniel interpreted it as disposal authority.
Then instead of destroying the embryo, he transferred it to Claire.
“Did Mike know?”
“I don’t think he knew about Claire.”
“You don’t think?”
“I never saw evidence.”
“What did he know?”
Tiffany hesitated.
“He knew there was one late-developing embryo.”
My eyes closed.
There.
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
“And he never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You need to ask him.”
I laughed bitterly.
“I’ve spent enough years asking Mike questions.”
Then Tiffany said:
“I tried to contact you.”
I looked at her.
“When?”
“After Claire became pregnant.”
“How?”
“Two emails.”
I never received them.
“A letter.”
Never.
“One voicemail.”
Nothing.
Then Tiffany explained.
Mike had changed my contact information with Hawthorne during our separation.
New email.
His mailing address.
Why?
He told the clinic he was managing communications because treatment updates were “triggering” for me.
My stomach twisted.
That sounded exactly like him.
Protective language used as control.
“So anything you sent…”
“May have gone through him.”
“Did he see it?”
“I don’t know.”
Then Tiffany pulled out one returned certified letter.
Addressed to me.
Forwarding sticker.
Returned to sender.
The return date was two weeks after Mike ended our marriage.
On the back, someone had written:
PATIENT DECLINES FURTHER CONTACT.
Not my handwriting.
Tiffany whispered:
“I believed your husband had spoken for you.”
I stared.
Five years ago, Mike told me I was not built for motherhood.
Meanwhile, a child genetically connected to us may already have existed as an embryo.
Maybe he did not know what Daniel had done.
But he knew enough to keep the embryo from me.
Then Tiffany added:
“My father died eighteen months ago.”
I had not expected that.
“No trial?”
“He was under investigation.”
“Did he confess?”
“Partly.”
Tiffany slid an old flash drive across the table.
“He recorded statements for his attorney.”
“About me?”
“About several patients.”
“Why haven’t authorities contacted me?”
“Your file was missing.”
Of course.
Then she said:
“But there’s one reason I knew Lily immediately.”
“What?”
“My father kept photographs.”
My skin crawled.
“Of Lily?”
“Of children born from disputed transfers.”
“Why?”
“He called them outcome documentation.”
I nearly became sick.
Tiffany’s voice broke.
May you like
“There were seven children.”
Lily was not the only one.
