She turned toward the window.
“Sophie, what does that mean?”
She didn’t answer.
I reached into my jacket and took out the folded letter, not the clinic notice. I placed it gently on the bed between us.
“In your letter, you wrote that the doctor mentioned unusual hormone levels. You said part of you was afraid to hope. Was there something else you didn’t tell me?”
Her breathing changed.
The monitor beside her gave a slightly quicker rhythm.
“Sophie,” I said softly, “please.”
She closed her eyes.
For a long moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer.
Then she whispered, “After the last miscarriage, they ran more tests than usual.”
I stayed very still.
“One doctor thought there might have been a vanishing twin,” she continued. “Another thought the levels were from the tumor. Nothing was clear. Everything was confusing, and then the tumor became the urgent thing.”
I frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
She opened her eyes, and tears slid silently into her hairline.
“Before the divorce,” she said, “I went to a fertility specialist. Just once. I wanted to know if we still had options someday. Even if we weren’t okay yet. Even if I was sick.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
She looked at me then.
Really looked at me.
“The clinic called while I was in the middle of the divorce paperwork. They said there was a problem with the consent forms. They said something had been preserved from one of the procedures after the miscarriage.”
My breath caught.
“What are you saying?”
She swallowed hard.
“I’m saying I don’t know exactly what exists. I was too overwhelmed to follow up. Then the diagnosis got worse, and I told myself it didn’t matter anymore.”
“It matters,” I said.
Her face crumpled.
“I know.”
Before either of us could say more, there was a knock at the door.
Dr. Keller stepped inside, holding a sealed envelope.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, glancing between us. “Sophie, the fertility clinic returned my call.”
Sophie’s hand flew to her mouth.
Dr. Keller looked at me, then back at her.
“I think both of you need to hear this.”
The room went silent except for the monitor beside her bed.
Dr. Keller opened the envelope.
His expression changed as he read.
Then he lifted his eyes.
“Sophie,” he said carefully, “the clinic confirmed there is a viable frozen embryo in storage.”
My entire body went still.
Sophie began to cry.
But Dr. Keller wasn’t finished.
“There’s more,” he said.
I gripped the edge of the chair.
“What more?”
He looked from Sophie to me, and his voice lowered.
“The consent paperwork lists both intended parents.”
He paused.
“And according to the clinic’s records, a transfer was requested six weeks ago.”
Sophie froze.
I stared at him.
“Requested by who?” I asked.
Dr. Keller’s face tightened.
“That’s what we need to find out.”
