I did not leave Mark’s office.
The hallway noises continued beyond the door—phones ringing, someone laughing, footsteps passing—but none of it seemed connected to the room anymore.
I stared at him.
“Say that again.”
He did not.
I crossed back toward his desk.
“What conception record?”
“I never saw the full file.”
“You said Evelyn told you one had been altered.”
“Yes.”
“What was altered?”
“She didn’t tell me clearly.”
“Then what did she tell you?”
Mark pressed both hands against the desk as if he needed its weight.
“She said there was a record from the year Emma was born that shouldn’t have existed under my donor number.”
I felt a chill run down my arms.
“Shouldn’t have existed because?”
“She said I wasn’t supposed to have any active samples in use by then.”
“But you did.”
“Apparently.”
“You said you had stopped donating.”
“I had.”
“When?”
“About a year before Emma was conceived.”
My mind caught on the timeline.
“You and I were already married?”
“Yes.”
“And the clinic still had stored samples?”
“Yes.”
“Did you authorize their continued use?”
“No.”
That answer came firmly.
“At least not knowingly.”
The qualification mattered.
I heard it.
“What does that mean?”
Mark opened a drawer, then closed it again without taking anything out.
“The agreements were complicated. I signed forms when I was younger. There were storage clauses. Disposition clauses. I didn’t read everything the way I should have.”
“Did you sign away permanent use?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think.”
“I was twenty-four.”
“You keep using your age like a lawyer.”
“I’m not.”
“It sounds like one.”
He looked at me.
“I’m telling you I don’t know what rights the clinic claimed versus what they actually had.”
I thought of Evelyn Ross.
The woman who had slept with him.
The woman who apparently decided his genetics belonged to her business long after he stopped participating.
“What happened to the altered file?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did Evelyn say?”
“She said someone had changed identifiers.”
“Whose identifiers?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Why?”
“She was scared.”
“Of whom?”
“Her business partner. Legal exposure. Lawsuits. I don’t know.”
“You met her privately.”
“Yes.”
“You had every reason to demand answers.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“She stopped talking.”
“How convenient.”
“She was unstable.”
“Was she?”
Mark’s eyes flashed.
“Claire.”
“No. I’m asking. Was she unstable, or is that the word you use now because she knew things you didn’t want me to hear?”
“She was unstable.”
“How?”
“She was paranoid. She thought employees were stealing records. She thought former patients were building cases against her. She called me at all hours.”
“Maybe because employees were stealing records and patients were building cases.”
He said nothing.
I reached for the chair and sat.
The anger had burned so hot that suddenly only exhaustion remained.
“Why would Emma’s death make Evelyn look at a conception record?”
Mark’s expression changed.
“That’s what I asked.”
“And?”
“She said she had seen the accident in the news.”
I remembered the coverage.
A six-year-old killed by a driver who ran a light. Local news had used Emma’s school photograph. The story lasted two days.
“What did she recognize?”
Mark looked at the floor.
“Emma.”
My throat tightened.
“Because she had seen her at the park.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Mark looked up.
“No?”
“She saw a dead child on television and immediately went to clinic records from the year Emma was born. That makes no sense unless Emma reminded her of something.”
He said nothing.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I genuinely don’t.”
“Did Evelyn think Emma was connected to the clinic?”
He closed his eyes.
“I asked her exactly that.”
“And?”
“She said no.”
I exhaled sharply.
“That’s not believable.”
“I know.”
“Did you believe her?”
“No.”
The admission shocked me more than denial would have.
“So you suspected.”
“For a while.”
“Suspected what?”
He looked physically ill.
“That there was some connection between Emma’s birth year and what Evelyn had done.”
I stood again.
“Our daughter was conceived naturally.”
“Yes.”
“We were trying.”
“Yes.”
“I was pregnant with your child.”
“Yes.”
“You were there when she was born.”
“Yes.”
“Then what connection could there possibly be?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared at him.
He was not pretending now.
That frightened me.
There were lies in Mark, but this appeared to be confusion.
“Did you ever test Emma’s DNA?”
“No.”
“Did Evelyn ask you to?”
“No.”
“Did she ever suggest Emma wasn’t biologically mine?”
His face snapped toward me.
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
“Never.”
“Then what did she imply?”
“That the clinic had created a record related to me during that period.”
I rubbed my arms.
A thought came.
Unwelcome.
Strange.
“Could the record have been for someone else?”
“Of course.”
“Another child conceived around the same time.”
“Yes.”
“A child who would now be around sixteen.”
Mark nodded.
Lily was six.
Emma would have been sixteen.
I saw the shape of it.
“Someone Emma’s age.”
“Yes.”
“Someone who might look like her.”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
I whispered, “A sibling.”
Mark did not correct me.
The word felt dangerous.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it might be right.
I sat again.
“How many children did Evelyn show you after Emma died?”
“Two.”
“Were either Emma’s age?”
“No.”
“Did she mention one?”
“She said there may have been an older conception.”
“Older than the photographs?”
“Yes.”
“Same year as Emma.”
“Yes.”
“Was that the altered record?”
“I think so.”
A pressure built behind my ribs.
“Did she tell you whether the child was male or female?”
“No.”
“Where the family lived?”
“No.”
“Anything?”
“She said the file had been manipulated and that she needed time to reconstruct it.”
“And then?”
“She stopped answering.”
“For how long?”
“Months.”
“Then what?”
“She called again.”
“What did she say?”
Mark stared at me.
“That the record was gone.”
“Gone?”
“Deleted, removed, transferred. She wasn’t clear.”
“Did she think someone had destroyed it?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
I paced toward the window.
Below us, two pedestrians waited at a crosswalk.
Red light.
Green.
Traffic moved.
Ten years ago, another light had changed everything.
Now a missing file from Emma’s birth year seemed to be reaching forward through time.
“Did Evelyn keep backups?”
“I don’t know.”
“Charles might.”
“Who?”
“The former employee.”
Mark’s head lifted.
“You already talked to him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Enough.”
“Claire.”
“He told me one donor appeared far too often.”
Mark’s face tightened.
“He told you that donor was me?”
“He couldn’t legally confirm it.”
“But you decided it was.”
“You just confirmed it.”
Mark looked away.
“He told me the clinic owner had an affair with the donor.”
Silence.
“He told me the donor had one documented child outside the program, now dead.”
Mark sat down heavily.
“So yes. It’s you.”
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Mark said, “I need to come with you.”
“To see Charles?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because every time you enter the room, truth seems to leave.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I’m past fair.”
“Claire, if there are records about me, I have a right to see them.”
“And Lily has a right not to have you storming into her life because you suddenly care about records you ignored for years.”
His expression hardened.
“I care.”
“When did that begin?”
He looked wounded.
The cruelty of the question struck me after I said it.
But I did not apologize.
Not yet.
Mark sat quietly.
Then he said, “The day you showed me Lily.”
I stared.
He continued.
“I recognized more than resemblance.”
“What?”
“Something Emma used to do.”
My throat tightened.
“What?”
“The way Lily smiles in that photograph. One side comes up first.”
I knew exactly what he meant.
Emma’s smile had always formed unevenly, right side first, as though she was trying not to laugh and losing.
“I saw it,” he said. “And I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That she could be one of them.”
“One of your biological children.”
He nodded.
“And that terrified you.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I had spent ten years telling myself none of those children belonged to my life.”
The sentence contained more honesty than anything he had said all day.
“They were abstract,” he continued. “A consequence of something I did when I was young. I could tell myself their families wanted them, loved them, raised them. Then Lily was suddenly real.”
“A six-year-old in a children’s home.”
“Yes.”
“And she looked like Emma.”
His eyes filled.
“Yes.”
For the first time since entering his office, my anger loosened enough for grief to reach through.
Mark looked down.
“I didn’t want to know.”
“That doesn’t make it disappear.”
“I know.”
I sat across from him.
“Then help me.”
He looked up.
“No more half-truths.”
He nodded.
“No more deciding what I can handle.”
Another nod.
“No more secret calls, meetings, files, or women from your past showing up in pieces.”
“I understand.”
I watched him.
“Is Evelyn alive?”
His face changed.
“Yes.”
The answer startled me.
“Where?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You were in contact four years ago.”
“Last contact.”
“What happened?”
“She disappeared from the clinic after regulators began asking questions.”
“Disappeared?”
“Closed the facility. Sold assets. Lawyers handled everything.”
“And no one knows where she went?”
“I heard she moved west.”
“Heard from whom?”
“A former clinic administrator.”
“Name?”
“David Harlan.”
I took out my phone.
“Spell it.”
Mark did.
I saved it.
“Does Charles know him?”
“Probably.”
“Who else?”
Mark stared at the desk.
“There was a lab technician. Sofia Mendes.”
“Spell it.”
He did.
I saved that too.
“Anyone else?”
“Claire—”
“Anyone who might have records.”
He thought.
“There was an accountant named Walter Greene. He handled some internal audits.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“After Evelyn told me the conception file had disappeared.”
I stopped typing.
“You contacted the accountant.”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That some donor records had been intentionally split between systems.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t know.”
“You believed that?”
“No.”
“What did he really know?”
“I never found out.”
“Why?”
“He died.”
A chill moved down my back.
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
“Natural causes?”
Mark looked startled.
“Yes. Heart attack.”
I nodded.
My mind was making patterns everywhere now.
That was dangerous.
Still, the names mattered.
David Harlan.
Sofia Mendes.
Walter Greene.
Evelyn Ross.
Charles Mercer.
A network surrounding one clinic and one donor.
My husband.
“What are you going to do now?” Mark asked.
“Talk to Charles again.”
“And Miss Jameson.”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“Find out whether Lily’s case allows genetic testing.”
Mark looked uneasy.
“If she is mine…”
“We deal with that when we know.”
“And the older record?”
I met his eyes.
“We find it.”
His voice became quiet.
“What if that child is alive?”
“Then there is a sixteen-year-old somewhere who may share half of Emma’s DNA.”
Mark rubbed his face.
“And might not know.”
“Yes.”
We sat with that.
Finally I stood.
“I’m leaving.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“Do you want me to come home tonight?”
The question hurt more than I expected.
I looked at him.
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
“That’s fair.”
I reached the door.
“Claire.”
I turned.
His face had collapsed into something close to fear.
“There’s one thing I never told Evelyn.”
“What?”
“After Emma was born, the clinic contacted me once.”
“When?”
“When she was about six months old.”
My skin prickled.
“Why?”
“They asked if I would submit a fresh medical history.”
“That’s normal for donor updates, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because they asked whether I had any biological children of my own.”
I stared.
“What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“And?”
“They asked her birth date.”
My fingers tightened around the door handle.
“You gave it to them.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“The caller got quiet.”
Mark looked at me.
“Then she said, ‘That explains the duplicate.’”
Every thought in my head stopped.
“What duplicate?”
“I asked.”
His voice shook.
“She hung up.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: A Former Clinic Employee Remembered the Word “Duplicate,” and Her Explanation Suggested Two Babies Had Once Been Linked Under Mark’s Identity
Ten Years After One Ordinary Drive Destroyed Our Family, I Finally Asked Mark Whether We Were Allowed to Want a Future
Part 6 of 15
