For several seconds, Mark did not move.
The office around him looked painfully ordinary. Two framed certificates hung behind his desk. A half-finished cup of coffee sat beside his keyboard. Through the window, traffic moved along the avenue below, indifferent to the fact that my marriage had just narrowed to one question.
“Why do children connected to that fertility clinic look like you?”
Mark’s eyes shifted toward the closed door.
Then back to me.
“Claire, lower your voice.”
The request was so absurd that I nearly laughed.
“Is that your concern?”
“I don’t want the whole office hearing us.”
“Then answer me quickly.”
His jaw tightened.
“You shouldn’t have gone back there.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
He moved around his desk and reached toward me.
I stepped away.
His hand fell.
“Claire.”
“No. Don’t use that tone with me. Not now.”
He looked older than he had that morning. Not physically, exactly. More exposed. The face I had known for half my life suddenly seemed full of locked rooms.
I said, “Did you donate sperm to that clinic?”
His eyes closed.
That was enough.
Still, I needed the word.
“Mark.”
“Yes.”
The room contracted.
I had imagined many possible answers during the drive. A misunderstanding. A false identification. Some bizarre administrative overlap.
Not that.
“How long?”
He sat on the edge of his desk.
“It was years ago.”
“How many?”
“What?”
“How many times?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
His shoulders rose and fell.
“Several.”
“Before Emma?”
“Yes.”
The answer landed hard.
I gripped the back of the visitor chair.
“When?”
“Before we were married. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I donated a few times after.”
“After what?”
“After we got together.”
A pulse began beating in my temple.
“After we married?”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“Before the wedding.”
I stared.
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“At the time, it didn’t feel important.”
“Not important?”
“I was twenty-three. Twenty-four. I needed money.”
“You donated because you needed money?”
“That was how it started.”
“How it started?”
Mark looked toward the floor.
The phrase had slipped out.
I heard it.
“So there was more.”
He did not answer.
I moved closer.
“Was there more?”
“Yes.”
The word came quietly.
“What?”
“The clinic called me back.”
“Why?”
“They said I was a strong donor candidate.”
I thought of Charles.
Good health screenings.
Appearance people requested.
Red hair. Light eyes. Freckles.
My stomach turned.
“And you kept going.”
“For a while.”
“How long is a while?”
“Claire—”
“How long?”
“About two years.”
I stared at him.
Two years.
Not one impulsive visit before we met. Not a forgotten college-era decision.
A pattern.
“You were donating while we were dating.”
“Yes.”
“While you were telling me you wanted a family someday.”
He flinched.
“I never thought of it like that.”
“Of course you didn’t.”
“I was stupid.”
“Stupid is forgetting an anniversary. Stupid is buying a motorcycle because your friend convinced you it was a good idea.”
My voice began to shake.
“This is something you hid from me for twenty years.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Then why are you terrified now?”
That stopped him.
He looked at me.
I waited.
Nothing.
I said, “You recognized Lily.”
His face changed.
“No.”
“You did.”
“I saw a resemblance.”
“You saw more than that.”
“I saw a child who reminded me of Emma.”
“And you panicked.”
“Because I knew what you would do.”
“What would I do?”
“Exactly this.”
He gestured between us.
“Start connecting things you don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
His mouth tightened.
I lowered my voice.
“Was Lily conceived from your donation?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think she was?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Did the clinic ever tell you children had been conceived?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
I felt something cold move through me.
“How many?”
“They weren’t supposed to give donors detailed information.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“A few successful pregnancies.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
His answer came immediately.
“Because they weren’t my children.”
The words sliced through the room.
I stared at him.
Mark realized what he had said.
His face softened.
“I mean legally. Emotionally. Claire, I was a donor. That was the arrangement.”
“Some of them may have looked exactly like our daughter.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You knew your genetics were being used.”
“Yes.”
“And you never considered there might be children out there?”
“Of course I knew theoretically.”
“Theoretically.”
“I didn’t sit around imagining them.”
I looked away.
On the bookshelf behind him sat a photograph from our tenth anniversary.
We were smiling.
Emma had been dead two years.
I remembered that trip. Mark had been distant for half of it, checking his phone constantly.
At the time, I assumed work.
Now suspicion touched everything.
“Did you keep contact with the clinic?”
“No.”
“After you stopped donating?”
His silence lasted half a second too long.
I turned back.
“Mark.”
“Occasionally.”
My mouth went dry.
“Why?”
“They sent routine updates.”
“You just said donors weren’t supposed to get information.”
“Not details. Administrative things.”
“For ten years?”
“No.”
“How long?”
He stood.
“This is going nowhere.”
“That depends entirely on whether you start telling me the truth.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“No, you are giving me one piece at a time, and every piece changes the last one.”
He looked toward the door again.
Then lowered his voice.
“The clinic owner contacted me personally.”
The sentence changed the shape of everything.
“Who?”
“Dr. Evelyn Ross.”
I remembered Charles saying the clinic owner had become personally involved with one donor.
My skin prickled.
“How personally?”
Mark’s gaze dropped.
I understood before he spoke.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“No.”
“It wasn’t what you think.”
“That sentence has never been followed by anything good in the history of marriage.”
He exhaled hard.
“She became interested in me.”
“And you?”
“I was young.”
“That is not an answer.”
“There was a relationship.”
The room seemed to tilt beneath me.
“When?”
“Before you and I were serious.”
“How long?”
“Not long.”
“Were you sleeping with her while we were together?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Were you sleeping with her while donating?”
“Yes.”
I laughed once because otherwise I might have screamed.
“Of course.”
“Claire, it ended.”
“But the donations didn’t.”
He looked at me.
“They continued for a while.”
“Because she asked?”
“Yes.”
“And you never wondered why she wanted your material so often?”
“I thought the clinic had demand.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“You believed her?”
“At twenty-four? Yes.”
I pressed my fingers to my forehead.
The pieces Charles had given me were beginning to fit.
Favoritism.
Obsession.
One donor used far beyond normal limits.
The owner involved personally.
I looked at Mark.
“Did she love you?”
He appeared startled.
“What?”
“Evelyn Ross. Did she love you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she say she did?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“And you kept going back.”
“For a period of time.”
“Because?”
“I liked the attention.”
The honesty was uglier than denial.
He swallowed.
“I’m not proud of it.”
“That doesn’t help me.”
“I know.”
“Did she ever tell you she used your donations without proper authorization?”
“No.”
“Did she ever imply it?”
“No.”
“Did she ever tell you how many children resulted?”
“No.”
“Then why did you react the way you did when you saw Lily?”
He looked past me.
“Because Evelyn contacted me after Emma died.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What?”
He did not answer.
I moved so quickly the chair scraped across the floor.
“When?”
“A few months after.”
“What did she say?”
“Claire—”
“What did she say?”
He closed his eyes.
“She said she was sorry.”
“That’s all?”
“At first.”
“At first.”
I hated those two words now.
“What else?”
“She said there were things I should know about the clinic.”
I could barely hear myself breathe.
“Did you meet her?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“A coffee shop.”
“You met a woman you once slept with, a woman who had been using your genetic material, after our daughter died, and never told me.”
“Yes.”
“What did she tell you?”
His face had gone pale.
“That there might be more children than I knew.”
“How many?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Did she mention misconduct?”
“Not directly.”
“Did she say your samples were used beyond what you agreed to?”
Mark’s mouth tightened.
“She implied it.”
I stared at him.
“And you did nothing?”
“I was grieving.”
“So was I.”
“I know.”
“No. Don’t say that as though grief excuses this.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Did she show you photographs?”
His silence answered.
My chest tightened.
“How many?”
“Two.”
“Children?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
“One was a baby. The other maybe three.”
“Did they look like you?”
“Yes.”
“Did they look like Emma?”
His voice became almost inaudible.
“Yes.”
I turned away.
For several seconds, I could not look at him.
I imagined Mark sitting in some coffee shop months after our daughter’s funeral, staring at photographs of children who carried the same face.
Then coming home to me.
Saying nothing.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought it would destroy you.”
I turned.
“You don’t get to decide which truth I survive.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I was.”
“No. You were protecting yourself.”
He recoiled.
“From what?”
“From me knowing what you’d done.”
“I hadn’t done anything illegal.”
“That is an unbelievably low standard.”
He looked exhausted.
“I know.”
“Did you keep contact with Evelyn?”
“Not regularly.”
“That means yes.”
“She called occasionally.”
“Until when?”
He hesitated.
“About four years ago.”
I stared.
Four years ago.
Six years after Emma died.
A decade after his supposed donor history had stopped mattering.
“What did she want?”
“To talk.”
“About what?”
“The clinic.”
“Children?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did she ever mention Lily?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did she mention a girl in foster care or adoption?”
“No.”
“What about an investigation?”
“That came later.”
“You knew about it.”
His face tightened.
“How much did you know?”
“Only that former employees were raising concerns.”
“When?”
“A year ago.”
A year.
I felt suddenly hollow.
“You knew for a year that dozens of children might have been conceived using your sperm without proper consent.”
“I didn’t know dozens.”
“You knew enough.”
“Yes.”
“You knew enough to recognize exactly what I might be seeing when I found Lily.”
He had no answer.
I looked at the man I had loved for more than twenty years.
At the father who had carried Emma asleep from the car, built her a treehouse badly enough that I made him rebuild the railing, cried in a hospital bed the night she died.
Both could be true.
He could have loved her completely.
He could also have built our marriage around a secret.
“Is Lily your biological daughter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we find out.”
His head lifted.
“What?”
“We request DNA testing.”
“No.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because that crosses a line.”
I almost laughed.
“A line?”
“She’s a child in care, Claire. You can’t walk in demanding genetic tests because she looks familiar.”
“Then we follow whatever legal process exists.”
“And if she is?”
The question stopped me.
Mark’s voice lowered.
“What then?”
I had not let myself imagine beyond certainty.
“If she is your biological daughter?”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Then she deserves to know the truth.”
“And us?”
“What about us?”
“You think we just adopt her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think this turns into some miracle?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You found a girl who looks like Emma and now you’re willing to blow up everything because maybe she shares DNA with me.”
My anger returned.
“Everything is already blown up. I just didn’t know it.”
He looked stricken.
I picked up my bag.
“Where are you going?”
“To speak to Charles.”
“Why?”
“Because unlike you, he seems capable of telling the truth eventually.”
“Claire.”
I opened the door.
“Did Emma ever know?”
He froze.
I turned back.
“About the donations. About children who might share half her DNA.”
“No.”
“Did Evelyn ever meet Emma?”
The silence became terrible.
“Mark.”
His eyes shifted away.
My pulse thudded.
“Did she?”
“Once.”
I could not breathe.
“When?”
“She saw us at a park.”
“That isn’t meeting.”
“She came over.”
“Did she speak to Emma?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing important.”
“Define important.”
“She said she had beautiful hair.”
My stomach turned.
“And you never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you’d ask who she was.”
“And you didn’t want to answer.”
“Yes.”
I closed the door again.
For one strange second, I considered crossing the room and slapping him.
Instead, I said, “I am going to find out exactly what happened at that clinic, and I’m going to find out whether Lily is your daughter.”
“Claire.”
“And if you lie to me again, even once, whatever remains of this marriage ends with the lie.”
His face crumpled slightly.
I opened the door.
Behind me, he said, “There’s something else.”
I stopped.
Of course there was.
I turned slowly.
Mark stood beside his desk, pale and defeated.
“What?”
“Evelyn didn’t contact me after Emma’s death just because she felt guilty.”
My mouth went dry.
“Why did she contact you?”
His voice shook.
“Because Emma’s accident made her realize one of the clinic records connected to me had been altered.”
I stared at him.
“What record?”
He swallowed.
“A conception record dated the same year Emma was born.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Altered Record Came From Emma’s Birth Year, and One Hidden File Suggested Mark’s Secret Had Reached Our Family Long Before Lily
Ten Years After One Ordinary Drive Destroyed Our Family, I Finally Asked Mark Whether We Were Allowed to Want a Future
Part 5 of 15
