Chapter 6
I stared at my computer.
What had we lost?
The company had experienced financial difficulties before, but it had never collapsed.
We had sold our first house, but that had been a mutual decision.
Then a memory surfaced.
Four years earlier, Alistair and I had undergone fertility treatment.
We had spent thousands of dollars trying to have a child.
After several unsuccessful procedures, our doctor had recommended creating and freezing embryos.
Two embryos had initially been placed in storage.
Months later, Alistair told me the clinic had contacted him.
He said both embryos had been found nonviable after additional testing and that the clinic would arrange the necessary disposal procedures.
I had been devastated.
Eventually, we stopped trying.
For years, I had believed our chance of having a biological child was gone.
But now, sitting alone in my kitchen, I heard my husband’s voice again.
“She still believes we lost everything.”
A terrible thought crossed my mind.
I pushed it away.
Surely, he had been talking about something else.
Surely, even Alistair couldn’t have done something that cruel.
The following morning, I went to my old fertility clinic.
I had not set foot inside the building for almost four years.
The smell of disinfectant brought back memories I had spent years trying to bury.
The waiting room.
The hopeful couples.
The little photographs of smiling babies pinned to a bulletin board.
I remembered sitting beside Alistair after our last appointment, crying so hard that I could barely speak.
He had held my hand.
“We still have each other,” he had whispered.
I had believed him.
Now I approached the reception desk and requested copies of my complete medical records, including all embryo storage and disposition documents.
The receptionist asked me to complete a form.
I did.
Two days later, I received the records through the clinic’s patient portal.
I reviewed every page.
The original records confirmed that two embryos had been created and placed in storage.
But the disposition documents contained something strange.
There was a consent form authorizing the destruction of the remaining embryos.
It carried my signature.
Except I had never signed it.
I knew my own handwriting.
The signature looked like mine, but the shape of the letters was slightly wrong.
I stared at the date.
It was the same day I had been in Chicago attending a legal conference.
I still had the hotel reservation and conference attendance confirmation.
I called Rebecca immediately.
“Someone signed a medical consent form in my name.”
Her voice sharpened.
“What kind of consent?”
I swallowed.
“Authorization to destroy our embryos.”
“Did you sign it?”
May you like
“No.”
“Then don’t contact your husband or the clinic about the discrepancy yet. Send me the records.”
