The records arrived on a Tuesday morning.
I knew what the envelope was before I opened the mailbox.
It was thicker than the ordinary letters, with the clinic's name printed in the upper corner and my address typed beneath it.
I carried it inside and placed it on the kitchen table.
For several minutes, I did nothing.
The kettle clicked off behind me.
I poured the water into my mug, forgot to add the tea bag, and stood there staring at the envelope.
I had wanted these records since the day Julian told me the embryos were gone.
Now that they were finally in my hands, I was afraid of what I might find.
I sat down.
The envelope made a dry tearing sound when I opened it.
Inside were copies of documents, appointment notes, correspondence, and pages filled with medical language I did not immediately understand.
I laid them out in small groups.
The first pages contained information I recognized.
My name.
My dates of birth and treatment.
The clinic's name.
The appointments Julian and I had attended together.
I checked the dates against my calendar.
Some matched exactly.
Others brought back memories I had almost forgotten.
I remembered waiting rooms with gray chairs and magazines nobody seemed to read.
I remembered the cold paper on examination tables.
I remembered Julian squeezing my hand during appointments, then looking at his phone the moment we stepped outside.
Back then, I had thought he was worried about work.
I had tried to be patient with him.
I had told myself we were both coping in different ways.
I did not know what those moments meant now.
I refused to pretend I did.
I worked through the papers slowly, writing down terms I needed the clinic to explain.
When I reached the correspondence section, I stopped.
There were references to communications about my treatment that I did not remember receiving myself.
I read each page twice.
Some letters were addressed to Julian.
Others were addressed to both of us.
I could not tell from the copies alone what he had been told in person or what information he had passed along to me.
I could tell that the records were more complicated than the simple explanation I had been given at home.
That was not the same as proof that he had lied.
I wrote that distinction on my question sheet.
Then I called the clinic.
A records representative answered and asked which documents I wanted help understanding.
I explained that I was reviewing the file and needed clarification about the incident involving the embryos.
She asked me to identify the relevant dates.
I did.
She told me that some of the information would need to be reviewed by the appropriate medical staff before she could explain it.
I asked whether the clinic could arrange a consultation.
She said it could.
I thanked her and wrote down the appointment details.
When I ended the call, I felt both relieved and frustrated.
At least there was a next step.
At least I no longer had to rely entirely on Julian's memory of what had happened.
I gathered the papers and put them back into the envelope.
Then I called Eleanor.
“I received the records,” I told her.
She went quiet for a moment.
“Have you found anything?”
“I've found questions.”
“Do you think Julian told you the whole truth?”
“I don't know yet.”
I heard her draw a breath.
“I hope you find an answer.”
“So do I.”
She asked whether I wanted her to come over.
I considered it.
Part of me wanted someone beside me while I went through the pages again.
Another part wanted to make my decisions without anyone else's emotions pressing against mine.
“Not today,” I said. “I need to do this carefully.”
“Of course.”
Before we hung up, she told me that the twins were doing well.
I thanked her for telling me.
After the call, I sat quietly at the table.
I thought about the baby boy and his eyes.
I thought about Julian's message and the way he had used my deepest hurt to make a point.
I thought about Chloe showing me the messages, then admitting she had accepted Julian's explanation without verifying it.
None of those things changed the contents of the records.
None of them gave me permission to fill in what was missing.
I had to keep the questions separate.
That afternoon, I received a message from Julian.
Did the clinic send you anything?
I stared at the words.
He had known I requested the records.
He had objected to it.
Now he wanted to know what I had received.
I did not answer immediately.
I made a note of the message and saved it with the others.
Then I replied.
Yes. I am arranging a consultation to understand the documents.
His answer came almost at once.
You should have spoken to me first.
I set the phone down.
I had spoken to him.
I had asked him direct questions.
He had told me to leave the matter alone.
I picked up the phone again.
I did speak to you. You declined to explain.
He called me.
I let it ring once before answering.
“What are you hoping to accomplish?” he asked.
“Understanding what happened.”
“You have the records now. You can see that this was a medical situation.”
“I can see that there are medical records. I need someone qualified to explain them.”
“You're making it sound like I did something wrong.”
“I haven't accused you of anything.”
“You're treating me like I have.”
I closed my eyes.
This was how our conversations had always become difficult.
I asked a question.
He heard an accusation.
I tried to explain what I meant.
He made my explanation the subject of the argument.
By the end, I was usually apologizing for the way I had spoken instead of getting an answer to what I had asked.
I was tired of that pattern.
“Julian, I'm not going to argue with you.”
“Then stop digging through the past.”
“The past is mine, too.”
He went quiet.
For a moment, I thought he might say something different.
Instead, he told me I was making a mistake.
I asked him what mistake.
He did not answer directly.
He said I needed to accept that some things could not be changed.
I told him I understood that perfectly well.
Then I ended the call.
My hands were shaking again.
I went to the sink and ran cold water over my fingers.
I had spent years believing that if I could make the grief manageable, I could finally move forward.
I had not understood that moving forward did not require me to stop asking what had happened.
That evening, I took the envelope to the living room and sat beside the lamp.
I read the documents again.
I did not find a single sentence that explained everything.
I found dates, notes, and communications that needed context.
I found information I did not remember discussing with Julian.
I found enough to understand why I had felt uncomfortable accepting his explanation without asking more questions.
But I did not find an answer to the question that haunted me most.
Why had he been so determined to keep me from asking?
I wrote the question down.
Then I put the pen aside.
I would ask it again when I had more information.
For now, I had a consultation to attend and a stack of papers that deserved more than a frightened guess.
I turned off the lamp and carried the envelope back to the kitchen.
The next step was clear.
I would hear what the clinic could tell me.
Then I would decide what to do with it.
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: I Met With the Clinic Representative and Learned That Understanding the Medical Facts Would Take More Than Trusting Someone’s Version of Events
I Thought Losing the Chance to Become a Mother Was the Worst Thing My Husband Could Ever Do to Me
Part 13 of 16
