Twenty years I had known that woman, and I had never once been able to read her face.
She walked toward us at the same pace she always moved.
Measured.
Controlled.
Claire stayed two steps behind her.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I said to Diane.
“Nathan asked me to come.”
I looked at Nathan.
“I asked her to tell you herself,” he said.
“I thought you deserved to hear it from the person who actually did it.”
Diane stopped in front of me.
She was wearing a gray coat, pearl earrings.
She looked exactly like she always did.
Like someone who had never done anything wrong in her life.
“What is he talking about?” I said.
Diane was quiet for a moment.
“Two years ago,” she said, “you received a letter.
From a fertility specialist.
It outlined some concerns about Nathan’s test results — results that suggested the two of you might have difficulty conceiving naturally without intervention.”
I stared at her.
“You never received that letter,” she said.
“Because I took it.”
The hallway felt very small.
“You were already trying,” she said.
“You were hopeful.
I didn’t want you to carry that worry on top of everything else.”
