Chloe called the following afternoon.
I let it ring twice before answering.
I was sitting at the kitchen table with the clinic papers arranged in small piles.
The coffee beside me had gone cold.
“Sarah?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you for answering.”
“You said you had something to tell me.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me.”
She hesitated.
I heard a door close somewhere on her end, followed by the faint sound of a baby crying.
“I can't do this while we're on the phone,” she said. “Could we meet somewhere?”
I looked at the clock.
“Why?”
“Because I need to explain things properly.”
“You've had plenty of time to explain things properly.”
“I know.”
Her voice cracked on those two words.
I did not feel the relief I might once have felt at hearing her sound upset.
“I am not meeting you so you can tell me how guilty you feel,” I said. “I already know what you did to me.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then I want facts.”
She agreed to meet at a small café the next day.
I chose the place because it was public, quiet during the afternoon, and far enough from either of our homes that neither of us would feel trapped.
After we hung up, I wrote the appointment time on the same sheet where I had listed my questions.
Then I added another line.
What does Chloe know independently of Julian?
It seemed like a simple question.
It was not.
For months, I had believed Chloe knew me well enough to understand how deeply the fertility treatments had affected me.
She had been the person I called after difficult appointments.
She had sat on my couch while I cried.
She had brought groceries when I could barely make myself leave the house.
I had trusted her with the parts of my life I was too ashamed to tell anyone else.
During those conversations, I had spoken about the embryos as if they were a future I had already lost.
I had never imagined that the person listening to me would become part of the betrayal that followed.
The next day, I arrived at the café ten minutes early.
I chose a table near the window and ordered tea.
My hands were cold around the cup.
Chloe arrived carrying a large handbag and wearing a coat I remembered seeing at my house.
For one absurd second, I wondered whether I had lent it to her.
Then I remembered that she had always liked clothes I owned.
She stopped beside the table.
“Hi.”
“Sit down.”
She placed her bag on the floor and lowered herself into the chair opposite me.
Her face looked tired.
I noticed the shadows beneath her eyes and the way she kept twisting a ring around her finger.
I did not ask about the twins.
I did not ask whether she was sleeping.
Those questions belonged to a version of our friendship that no longer existed.
A server came over.
Chloe ordered water.
When the server left, she folded her hands on the table.
“I know I don't deserve your forgiveness.”
“I didn't come here to discuss forgiveness.”
“I know.”
“Then start.”
She looked down at her hands.
“Julian told me about the embryos before we became involved.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What exactly did he tell you?”
“That the treatment had failed. That the embryos were gone and you were devastated.”
“Did he tell you about a temperature failure?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say the clinic had confirmed it?”
“Yes.”
I held her gaze.
“Did you ever see a report from the clinic?”
She shook her head.
“Did you speak to anyone who worked there?”
“No.”
“Then you knew what Julian told you.”
“Yes.”
“Nothing more.”
She swallowed.
“Nothing more that I could verify.”
That qualification mattered.
I leaned back.
“Why did you say yesterday that you knew more than you should?”
“Because I knew how much you were suffering, and I knew I was becoming involved with your husband.”
“That isn't the same thing as knowing something about the embryos.”
“I know.”
“Then be precise.”
She nodded, wiping her palms against her coat.
“I was afraid that if I told you about Julian and me, everything would fall apart. I kept telling myself that the marriage was already ending and that you would eventually move on.”
“You watched me cry about losing a child while you were sleeping with my husband.”
She flinched.
“Yes.”
“You let me believe you were on my side.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever think about telling me the truth?”
“Every day.”
“But you didn't.”
“No.”
I waited for her to explain herself.
She tried.
She talked about how the affair had started with conversations at work, how Julian had told her he felt alone, and how she had convinced herself that their relationship was inevitable.
I listened without interrupting.
None of it changed the choices she had made.
When she finished, I asked the question that had brought me there.
“Why did Eleanor think you knew something about the clinic?”
Chloe's face changed.
It was subtle, but I saw it.
Her fingers stopped moving.
“I don't know exactly what Eleanor thinks,” she said.
“That isn't what I asked.”
She looked toward the window.
“I told her Julian had been handling the paperwork.”
“I already know that.”
“And I told her I hadn't seen everything.”
“What hadn't you seen?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
For a moment, I thought she would leave.
Instead, she reached into her handbag and took out her phone.
“I have messages from Julian,” she said. “They're not about the medical details. I need you to understand that.”
“Show me.”
She unlocked the phone and scrolled through a conversation.
I did not take it from her.
I leaned forward and read what she placed in front of me.
The messages were between Chloe and Julian, sent during the months before the twins were born.
Some were about the affair.
Some were about the divorce.
Others referred to the fertility treatment in vague terms.
Julian had told her that I was still asking questions.
He had told her he did not want the subject reopened.
In one message, Chloe had asked whether he had explained everything to me.
His response was brief.
She knows what she needs to know.
I read it twice.
It was not proof of what had happened to the embryos.
It was proof that Julian had discussed what I knew and what he wanted me to know.
I handed the phone back.
“Why are you showing me this now?”
“Because I should have shown you before.”
“That doesn't answer my question.”
She looked down.
“After Eleanor confronted us, I realized I couldn't keep pretending I had no part in any of this.”
“You have a part in the affair. That is already clear.”
“I know.”
“And these messages don't tell me what happened at the clinic.”
“No.”
I watched her carefully.
“Is there anything else you can tell me that you know firsthand?”
She shook her head.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The café was quiet except for the hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter.
I could hear someone laughing at a table near the door.
The ordinary sound made the conversation feel even stranger.
I had once imagined Chloe would be beside me when I finally became a mother.
Instead, I was sitting across from her, trying to understand how much of my life she had watched collapse while she kept her own secrets.
“I need you to stop calling me to confess things in pieces,” I said.
She nodded.
“If you remember something specific, write it down. Don't interpret it for me. Don't tell me what you think Julian meant. Tell me what you saw or heard.”
“I will.”
“And don't contact me again unless it concerns something factual.”
She pressed her lips together.
“I understand.”
I stood and put some money beside my untouched tea.
Chloe remained seated.
“Sarah,” she said.
I stopped, but I did not turn back toward her.
“I am sorry.”
I looked at her then.
“I believe you regret what you did.”
Her eyes filled.
“But regret doesn't make you safe for me to trust.”
I left before she could answer.
Outside, the air was cool and smelled faintly of rain.
I walked to my car without checking whether she had followed me out.
The meeting had not given me the answer I wanted.
It had given me something else.
A clearer line between what Chloe knew and what she had merely accepted from Julian.
That distinction was important.
If I wanted the truth, I could not let anyone else's guilt become a substitute for evidence.
When I got home, I added the messages to my list of things to document.
I wrote down the exact wording I remembered.
Then I sent Chloe a short message asking her to preserve the conversation and provide the relevant messages in their original form if I needed them later.
She replied that she would.
I put my phone away.
For the first time in days, I felt less interested in what either of them might say next.
I wanted the records.
I wanted dates that could be checked.
I wanted answers that did not change depending on who was asking the questions.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: Julian Called After Chloe Met With Me, and I Realized He Was More Worried About My Questions Than My Pain
I Thought Losing the Chance to Become a Mother Was the Worst Thing My Husband Could Ever Do to Me
Part 10 of 16
