Julian asked to meet a few days later.
His message said he wanted to settle things before the situation became worse.
I read it at my desk during lunch.
I almost declined.
Then I considered what I still needed to ask him.
I replied that I would meet him in a public place and that I was not interested in arguing about whether I had the right to request my own records.
He agreed.
We chose a café near the center of town.
I arrived first and ordered water.
When Julian walked in, I noticed that he looked older than he had when we were married.
There were lines near his eyes that I did not remember.
His hair was shorter.
He wore the same dark jacket he had worn during one of our final meetings about the divorce.
For a moment, I remembered the man who had sat beside me in clinic waiting rooms.
Then I remembered the photograph he had sent after the twins were born.
I stood as he approached.
He looked surprised.
“Hi, Sarah.”
“Hello.”
We sat down.
He glanced at my bag, where I had placed a notebook and a copy of my questions.
“You brought notes?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Can we please have one conversation without turning it into an interrogation?”
“I am asking about something that happened during my medical treatment.”
“I know what you're asking about.”
“Then this should be straightforward.”
He looked away.
A server came over, and Julian ordered coffee.
I waited until she left.
“I've reviewed some of the records with the clinic,” I said. “They explained several entries, but there are still questions about the communications and the explanation you gave me.”
He leaned back.
“I told you what happened.”
“You told me there was a catastrophic temperature failure and that the embryos were lost.”
“That's what I understood.”
“From whom?”
“The clinic.”
“Who spoke to you?”
He gave me a frustrated look.
“I don't remember every detail.”
“Then tell me what you do remember.”
He stared at the table.
For a moment, I thought he might answer.
Instead, he said the clinic's process had been confusing and that he had been trying to handle everything while I was struggling emotionally.
I listened.
I knew there was some truth in the fact that I had been struggling.
I had cried often.
I had sometimes needed him to make calls because I could not bear to hear another medical explanation.
But that did not answer my question.
“You were trying to help me,” I said. “Is that what you want me to believe?”
“I was trying to get us through it.”
“Then why did you tell me not to ask questions now?”
“Because you're hurting yourself.”
“That is not your decision to make.”
He shook his head.
“You always did this when things became difficult. You kept searching for a reason.”
I felt the old impulse to defend myself.
I wanted to remind him of the appointments, the medications, the nights when I had sat awake counting the hours until the next dose.
I wanted to tell him that searching for a reason had been the only way I could understand what was happening to my own body.
But I had already explained those things to him.
He had been there.
He knew.
I did not need to prove that my grief had been real.
“I asked you a direct question,” I said. “Why did you tell me to stop asking?”
He looked at me for a long time.
“Because I didn't want us to keep living in that period of our lives.”
“That isn't the same as answering me.”
He picked up his coffee, took a sip, and put it down again.
“I thought we needed to move forward.”
“Together?”
He did not answer.
I waited.
Finally, he said, “Our marriage was falling apart long before the divorce.”
“I know.”
“I was unhappy.”
“I know that, too.”
“I didn't know how to tell you.”
I looked at him.
“You managed to tell me when you wanted a divorce. You managed to tell me when you wanted me to stop asking questions. You managed to send me a photograph designed to hurt me.”
His jaw tightened.
“I have apologized for the photograph.”
“You apologized after I confronted you. You still haven't explained why you sent it.”
“I was angry.”
“So was I. I didn't try to make your grief worse.”
He looked down at his hands.
For a few seconds, the café seemed to grow quieter around us.
Then he said, “I didn't think about how it would sound.”
I believed he had not thought about my pain in that moment.
I did not believe that was the whole explanation.
But I was no longer going to force an answer from him.
“Did you ever see a document from the clinic that contradicted what you told me?”
He looked up quickly.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A direct one.”
“I don't know what you mean by contradicted.”
“Did you ever receive information that made you uncertain about the explanation you gave me?”
He rubbed his hands together.
“I don't remember.”
I watched him carefully.
That could have been the truth.
It could also have been a refusal to tell me more.
I could not know from his expression alone.
“Would you be willing to review the records with the clinic and answer the questions they can address?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don't want to keep going through this.”
I nodded slowly.
“Then I have my answer about whether you're willing to help.”
“That isn't fair.”
“You're allowed to refuse. I'm allowed to notice that you refused.”
He looked angry, but I did not raise my voice.
I had come to the meeting hoping for information.
I was leaving with a clearer understanding of what he was prepared to give me.
It was not everything.
It might not even be the truth.
But it was his choice.
I closed my notebook.
“I won't contact you again about this unless something specific requires your response.”
He seemed surprised by that.
“That's it?”
“For now.”
“You're just going to keep going through the records?”
“Yes.”
He leaned forward.
“Sarah, you need to understand that whatever happened, it doesn't change the fact that we're divorced.”
“I understand that.”
“And it doesn't change that Chloe and I have children.”
“I know.”
“Then why can't you let us live our lives?”
I looked at him.
“Because your life moving forward doesn't erase what happened in mine.”
He had no immediate response.
I stood, left money for my water, and picked up my bag.
I did not wait for him to follow me.
Outside, I stopped beside my car and breathed slowly until the tightness in my chest eased.
I had wanted him to say something that would make the years of confusion fit together.
I had wanted him to look at me and acknowledge that I had been entitled to more than a story he expected me to accept.
He had not done that.
I could not make him.
That evening, I wrote a careful account of the meeting.
I recorded his statements without adding interpretations.
I noted that he said he did not remember every detail of the clinic communications.
I noted that he refused to review the records with the clinic.
I noted that he said he wanted to move forward.
Then I closed the notebook.
I was beginning to understand that the truth might not arrive as a single confession.
It might come through records, conversations, and the limits of what other people were willing to say.
I would have to live with uncertainty while I continued to look.
That was difficult.
But it was better than letting Julian decide that uncertainty meant I should stop.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: I Could Not Force Julian to Give Me the Answers I Wanted, but I Could Finally Stop Letting His Silence Define My Life
I Thought Losing the Chance to Become a Mother Was the Worst Thing My Husband Could Ever Do to Me
Part 15 of 16
