“Kenneth,” I said, lowering my voice, “what is going on?”
He hesitated.
That worried me more than anything.
Kenneth Boyd never hesitated unless the truth needed careful handling.
“I received the final response from the private records request this morning,” he said.
Connor scoffed. “Private records? What records?”
Kenneth looked at him. “Records connected to the fertility clinic.”
The words moved through me like cold water.
For a moment, the hallway disappeared.
The walls. The nurses. The families. Connor’s smug face. Melinda’s trembling hands.
All I could see was a small exam room from years ago. A plastic chair. A box of tissues. Connor sitting beside me with his arms crossed while a specialist gently explained that our last attempt had failed.
Again.
I remembered apologizing.
That was the part that still made me ache. Not the injections, not the surgeries, not the hope that arrived every month dressed as fear.
I remembered apologizing to Connor because I thought my body had made him unhappy.
“What clinic records?” Connor demanded.
Kenneth’s mouth tightened. “This is not the place.”
Connor stepped closer. “You are not talking about my family like this.”
His family.
The word landed exactly where he meant it to.
I felt the sting, but it was duller than it once would have been. A year earlier, that sentence might have opened something in me. Now it only revealed him more clearly.
I turned to the nurse standing near the stroller.
“Could you take them into Consultation Room Three?” I asked.
She nodded. “Of course, Dr. Sinclair.”
Connor frowned. He hated hearing people defer to me. He had always preferred me uncertain.
“This is ridiculous,” he said.
“It’s private,” I replied. “You just asked for that.”
His jaw worked.
For a moment, I thought he would refuse, just to prove that he could. But Melinda stood, slowly, and placed both hands on the stroller handle.
“Connor,” she whispered. “Please.”
Something in her voice unsettled him.
Not guilt.
Fear.
He looked from her to Kenneth, then to me.
“Fine,” he said. “Five minutes.”
We walked down the hallway in a strange procession. Kenneth and I in front. Connor and Melinda behind us with the baby between them. The nurse followed to make sure the path remained clear and no glass had been tracked from the broken bottle.
Inside Consultation Room Three, the light was softer. There was a small round table, four chairs, a box of tissues, a wall-mounted hand sanitizer dispenser, and a mural of a sleepy moon holding a star. I had given difficult news in rooms like this. I had watched parents fall apart in rooms like this. I had learned that truth, no matter how gently offered, always changed the air.
Kenneth closed the door.
The click sounded final.
Connor remained standing. “Start talking.”
“Sit down,” Kenneth said.
“I’m not your client.”
“No,” Kenneth replied. “But your son is present.”
That quiet sentence did what anger would not have done.
Connor glanced at the baby and sat.
Melinda took the chair farthest from him.
I noticed.
Connor noticed too.
His eyes narrowed.
Kenneth placed the sealed folder on the table but did not open it immediately. He looked at me first.
“Kirsten, before I say anything else, I need to remind you that some of this may be upsetting.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of my tablet.
“I understood that when you came to my workplace with a sealed legal folder.”
A faint sadness crossed his face. “Fair enough.”
Connor leaned back. “This is all very dramatic.”
Kenneth finally opened the folder.
The room seemed to shrink around the sound of paper sliding against paper.
“During the divorce,” Kenneth said, “there were unresolved financial discrepancies. Kirsten chose not to pursue them aggressively at the time.”
Connor’s mouth curled. “Because there weren’t any.”
“Because she was exhausted,” Kenneth corrected.
I looked down.
That was true.
At the time, I had wanted the divorce over more than I wanted answers. I was working long shifts. My father was recovering from heart surgery. My marriage had become a house with all the lights off, and I no longer had the strength to search every room.
I had signed papers just to be free.
Kenneth continued. “Several months ago, a routine audit connected to a closed joint account revealed payments made from marital funds to an out-of-state reproductive storage facility.”
My breath caught.
Connor stopped moving.
Melinda closed her eyes.
“What?” I said.
Kenneth slid one paper toward me.
I did not touch it at first.
The logo at the top was unfamiliar, but the language beneath it was not. Cryogenic storage. Embryology transfer. Release authorization.
Medical words. Legal words.
Words from a life I thought had ended.
“Kenneth,” I whispered.
He spoke carefully. “The clinic where you and Connor underwent treatment closed two years ago after merging with a larger network. Some stored genetic materials were transferred to partner facilities. You were never notified.”
