Julian called that evening.
I knew it was him before I looked at the screen.
There were only a few people who still called instead of sending a message, and he had always preferred to speak when he thought he could control the direction of a conversation.
I let it ring.
Then it stopped.
A minute later, he called again.
I answered on the third attempt.
“What did Chloe tell you?”
There was no greeting.
I stood by the kitchen counter with one hand resting on the edge.
“Hello to you, too.”
“Sarah, I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
“What did she say?”
“That she had messages from you.”
A pause followed.
“What messages?”
“The ones where you discussed what I knew about the embryos.”
He exhaled sharply.
“Those messages were taken out of context.”
“Then explain the context.”
“I don't have time to go through every conversation we ever had.”
“You found time to send me a photograph of your newborn children with a message about what I could never give you.”
Silence.
I had not planned to bring up the photograph.
But once I said it, I could not pretend it was a separate matter.
“That was wrong,” he said at last.
“Yes.”
“I was angry.”
“So was I. I didn't use your children to hurt you.”
“They're my children, Sarah.”
“I know who their father is.”
“Then stop treating them like evidence in some kind of investigation.”
I gripped the counter.
“I have not said anything about your children except that one of them looked like me.”
“And you think that means something?”
“I don't know what it means. That's why I am asking questions.”
“You're upset. You're looking for a reason to believe something is wrong.”
“Then answer the questions.”
He made a frustrated sound.
“I already explained what happened.”
“You explained it to me once. I believed you. Now your mother says there are things she doesn't understand, and Chloe has shown me messages where you discuss what I know.”
“That doesn't change what happened.”
“Then tell me what happened.”
He did not answer.
I waited, watching the kitchen clock move from one minute to the next.
“Julian?”
“I don't know what you expect me to say.”
“The truth would be a good start.”
“You think I wanted to go through all of that? You think I wanted to watch you suffer?”
“No. I think you wanted me to stop asking questions.”
He said my name in a warning tone.
I had heard that tone before.
It used to make me lower my voice, explain myself, and eventually apologize for making a difficult conversation harder for him.
This time, I did not.
“I've requested my records from the clinic,” I said.
The silence on the line changed.
It was small, but I heard it.
“You did what?”
“I requested my records.”
“Why?”
“Because they concern my treatment.”
“You don't understand how complicated those records are.”
“Then I will ask the clinic to explain them.”
“You're going to create a mess over something that happened years ago.”
“Something happened to me, Julian. I am allowed to understand it.”
He started speaking, then stopped.
When he continued, his voice was quieter.
“I think you should leave this alone.”
I looked at the envelope on the table.
“Why?”
“Because it won't change anything.”
“That is for me to decide.”
“You're going to hurt people.”
“I have been hurt for years.”
“That's not fair.”
I almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny, but because he had found a way to make himself the injured person again.
“You don't get to tell me what is fair,” I said.
He accused me of involving Eleanor unnecessarily.
I reminded him that Eleanor had been the one to call me.
He said I had misunderstood her.
I asked him to explain what she meant.
He refused.
Every answer led back to the same place.
He wanted me to accept that there was nothing to learn.
He wanted the conversation to end before I could ask anything specific.
“I'm not discussing this anymore,” he finally said.
“Then don't.”
I ended the call.
My hand shook afterward.
I sat down and put the phone on the table.
For a few minutes, I could not bring myself to move.
I had expected anger.
I had expected him to deny everything.
What unsettled me was how quickly he had gone from insisting there was nothing wrong to telling me I should leave it alone.
I wrote down what he had said while I could still remember the exact order.
I did not embellish it.
I did not write that his silence proved guilt.
I wrote that he had objected to my request for records and had refused to explain why.
That was enough for the moment.
Later that night, Eleanor called.
I considered letting it go to voicemail.
Then I answered.
“Did Julian contact you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He wanted to know what Chloe told me.”
Eleanor sighed.
“I expected that.”
“Did you speak to him about the records?”
“No. I told him I wasn't going to tell you what to do.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“I don't want this to become a fight between you and your son.”
“It already became a fight when he asked me to keep quiet.”
I looked at the papers.
“What do you actually believe happened?”
“I believe there are questions that need answers. I do not know the answers.”
That was the most honest thing she could have said.
“Thank you.”
“I should have been honest with you sooner.”
“Yes,” I said. “You should have.”
She accepted it without defending herself.
Then she asked whether I had spoken to Chloe.
I told her about the café and the messages.
Eleanor listened quietly.
When I finished, she said, “You shouldn't have to build the truth out of pieces other people reluctantly hand you.”
“No,” I said. “I shouldn't.”
After the call, I made myself eat something.
I had spent so many days forgetting meals that the empty plate in front of me felt like another small piece of evidence about what grief had done to my life.
I was not going to pretend I was fine.
I was tired.
I was angry.
I was frightened that the records might tell me nothing useful at all.
But I was no longer waiting for Julian to decide when I was allowed to know more.
The next morning, the clinic's records department emailed me instructions for completing my request.
I read the message carefully and followed each step.
I supplied the information they needed and asked for the full available file relating to my treatment.
I also requested clarification about the incident Julian had described to me.
I did not accuse anyone of misconduct.
I did not tell them what I suspected.
I asked them to provide the records and explain any terminology I did not understand.
When I finished, I printed the confirmation and placed it inside the envelope Eleanor had given me.
The paper was warm from the printer.
I held it for a moment before putting it away.
It was not an answer.
It was a request for one.
That afternoon, I went through my old calendar again.
I found notes I had made after appointments, brief reminders about medications and follow-up calls.
Some entries were nothing more than dates and question marks.
I had written one sentence beside an appointment near the end of treatment.
Julian said he would handle the call.
I stared at it.
I could not remember what I had been asking him to call about.
The note did not prove anything.
It did remind me how much of the process I had allowed him to manage while I tried to hold myself together.
I copied the entry onto my question sheet.
Then I closed the calendar.
I could not change what I had trusted him to do.
I could only decide what I would do now.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: I Stopped Trying to Guess What the Baby’s Face Meant and Focused on the Records That Could Tell Me What Really Happened
I Thought Losing the Chance to Become a Mother Was the Worst Thing My Husband Could Ever Do to Me
Part 11 of 16
