I don’t remember walking in.
I remember sitting across from a woman in her fifties with reading glasses pushed up on her head and a manila folder on the table between us that she hadn’t opened yet.
“How did you get my number?” I asked.
“Marcus gave it to me.
Six weeks ago.” She folded her hands over the folder.
“He came to my office because he wanted to undo what he and Penelope had set in motion.
He was having second thoughts.
But then he stopped returning my calls, and I didn’t know what to do with what he’d told me.”
“What did he tell you?”
Diane opened the folder.
Inside was a single document.
I recognized the format — it was similar to the surrogacy agreement I had signed eight months ago.
But this one had different language.
I leaned forward and read the section she was pointing to.
