I frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
She opened her eyes, and tears slid silently into her hairline.
“Before the divorce,” she said, “I went to a fertility specialist. Just once. I wanted to know if we still had options someday. Even if we weren’t okay yet. Even if I was sick.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
She looked at me then.
Really looked at me.
“The clinic called while I was in the middle of the divorce paperwork. They said there was a problem with the consent forms. They said something had been preserved from one of the procedures after the miscarriage.”
My breath caught.
“What are you saying?”
She swallowed hard.
“I’m saying I don’t know exactly what exists. I was too overwhelmed to follow up. Then the diagnosis got worse, and I told myself it didn’t matter anymore.”
“It matters,” I said.
Her face crumpled.
“I know.”
Before either of us could say more, there was a knock at the door.
Dr. Keller stepped inside, holding a sealed envelope.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, glancing between us. “Sophie, the fertility clinic returned my call.”
Sophie’s hand flew to her mouth.
Dr. Keller looked at me, then back at her.
