I waited until the next morning to call the clinic.
The envelope Eleanor had given me sat beside my coffee mug, its flap bent from being opened and closed too many times.
I had barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the baby boy in Eleanor’s living room.
His eyes had been the first thing I noticed.
Not because they were unusual, but because they were familiar.
I knew what I had seen.
What I did not know was what it meant.
I made coffee and opened the envelope again.
There were papers inside, but looking at them the night before had done little to settle anything.
I could recognize dates, names, and references to appointments.
I could not tell which details mattered.
I spread everything across the kitchen table and put my old treatment calendar beside it.
For years, that calendar had been a record of hope.
Now it looked like a list of appointments I had attended without understanding what was happening around me.
I found the date Julian had told me the embryos were lost.
I remembered where I had been standing.
I remembered the damp dish towel in my hands and the sound of the refrigerator running behind me.
He had come home that evening with his shoulders slumped.
He had sat me down and explained that there had been a catastrophic temperature failure at the clinic.
The embryos, he said, had not survived.
I had asked him to repeat himself.
He had.
I had asked whether there was any chance the clinic had made a mistake.
He had told me they had checked everything.
I had believed him because I could not imagine him giving me such news without being certain.
I had also been too devastated to ask the questions I might have asked under different circumstances.
That was difficult to admit.
I had wanted someone to tell me what had happened, and Julian had stepped into that role.
I had let him become the only person who could explain my own loss to me.
I picked up the phone and called the clinic.
The receptionist answered after several rings.
I gave her my name and explained that I had questions about my former treatment records.
She asked me to verify some information.
I did.
Then she placed me on hold.
I listened to soft music and watched a thin line of sunlight move across the table.
When she returned, she said that some records could be discussed only after additional verification.
I told her I understood.
I asked what I needed to do.
She explained the process and said someone from the records department could contact me.
I wrote down her instructions.
Before ending the call, I asked whether there was a way to obtain the complete file rather than a selection of documents.
She told me how to submit the request.
I thanked her.
My voice sounded calm enough that I almost believed I was calm.
After hanging up, I wrote the date at the top of a fresh sheet of paper.
Underneath, I made three headings.
What I knew.
What Julian had told me.
What I still needed to establish.
The first list was painfully short.
I knew we had undergone years of fertility treatment.
I knew we had been told the embryos were lost.
I knew Julian had delivered that explanation.
I knew he had later begun an affair with Chloe.
I knew Chloe had given birth to twins.
And I knew one of those babies had looked enough like me to make my hands go cold.
The second list was longer.
Julian had told me the clinic had experienced a catastrophic failure.
He had told me the embryos could not be recovered.
He had told me there was nothing more the doctors could do.
He had told me that we needed to accept what had happened.
At the time, those words had sounded like grief.
Now I could hear how completely they had closed the conversation.
The third list filled the bottom half of the page.
I needed the full treatment records.
I needed to know what Julian had received from the clinic.
I needed to understand why Eleanor believed something was wrong.
And I needed to know whether the resemblance I had seen was only resemblance.
I stopped there.
I would not write an answer before I had evidence.
That had been one of my mistakes with Julian.
I had taken his confidence for certainty.
I had mistaken his willingness to speak for proof that he knew what he was talking about.
I was not going to do that again.
My phone rang shortly before noon.
Eleanor’s name appeared on the screen.
I answered, but neither of us spoke immediately.
“How are you feeling?” she finally asked.
I looked at the papers.
“Confused.”
“I thought you might be.”
“You said you had questions about what happened.”
“I do.”
“Then I need you to tell me what you know, not what you suspect.”
She breathed out slowly.
“That’s fair.”
I waited.
“I should have questioned Julian earlier,” she said. “I knew you were suffering, and I let him speak for both of you.”
“Why?”
“I thought I was respecting your marriage. I thought the details were private.”
“And now?”
“Now I think I used privacy as an excuse not to look too closely.”
I pressed my thumb against the edge of the table.
“Did Julian tell you something different from what he told me?”
“He told me the same basic story about the clinic.”
“Then what changed?”
“The way he talked about it changed. Sometimes he said there had been a failure. Other times he said the clinic had confirmed the embryos were gone. When I asked what the doctors had actually said, he became angry.”
“That doesn't prove anything.”
“No. It doesn't.”
I appreciated that she admitted it.
“What else?”
“He told me you had stopped asking questions.”
I stared at the paper in front of me.
“I stopped because I thought there were no answers.”
“I know that now.”
“No, Eleanor. You know I was hurt. You don't know what it was like to believe my chance to have a child had disappeared because of something nobody could explain.”
She went quiet.
I regretted the sharpness of my voice, but not the words.
“I am sorry,” she said.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
“I don't need you to apologize for my grief. I need you to tell me what you actually saw.”
She said she had kept the documents she had shown me because she wanted me to have a chance to look at them myself.
She also said she did not want to tell me what to think before I could examine them.
That was the first thing she had said since the previous afternoon that made me feel she understood what I needed.
“Did Julian know you were keeping them?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Did he know you planned to show them to me?”
“No.”
I looked toward the envelope.
“Please don't tell him what I am doing.”
“I won't.”
After we hung up, I returned to the table.
I read every page slowly, even when I could not make sense of the language.
I marked the dates I recognized.
I copied the names of the departments and the people listed as contacts.
I put the papers back into chronological order.
Nothing I saw gave me permission to declare what had happened.
But I was no longer willing to accept that the explanation I had received was the only explanation available.
That afternoon, Chloe sent me a message.
I had not blocked her number.
I had considered doing so, but part of me wanted to know whether she would ever say something that made sense of the choices she had made.
Her message was short.
Can we talk? There are things I should have told you.
I read it twice.
My first instinct was to delete it.
My second was to ask why she had waited until after the divorce and the birth of her children.
Instead, I wrote one sentence.
If you have something factual to tell me, put it in writing.
She did not answer right away.
I set my phone down and returned to the records.
An hour later, it vibrated.
I don't know how to explain it over text.
I typed back.
Then start with what you know.
The typing indicator appeared and disappeared.
Finally, she sent another message.
I knew Julian was dealing with the clinic paperwork. I knew he didn't want you involved in every conversation. I told myself it was because he was trying to protect you.
I felt a familiar pressure building behind my ribs.
Did you know the embryos were lost? I wrote.
Her answer came after several minutes.
That's what he told me.
I stared at the screen.
It was not an answer to the question I had meant to ask.
Did you see anything from the clinic yourself?
No response came.
I put the phone face down.
The silence was not proof of anything.
I repeated that to myself until the words began to sound like something I could actually believe.
I would not turn a delay into a confession.
I would not turn a resemblance into a conclusion.
And I would not let Julian's certainty replace my own judgment again.
For the first time since the divorce, I had a next step that did not depend on what either of them chose to tell me.
I would get the records.
I would read them.
And then I would decide what questions needed answers.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: Chloe Finally Agreed to Speak With Me, but I Refused to Let Her Turn Another Conversation Into an Apology Without Answers
I Thought Losing the Chance to Become a Mother Was the Worst Thing My Husband Could Ever Do to Me
Part 9 of 16
