Chapter 2 - The First Report Said Ethan Wasn't Connor's Son
I read the sentence three times.
Then a fourth.
The words did not change.
Probability of biological paternity: 0.00%.
I looked at Ethan.
Then Connor.
Then back at the paper.
For the first time since I had known him, Connor Fleming looked uncertain.
“What does it say?”
I couldn't answer immediately.
My mind had already shifted into the clinical place I used when a patient's test result made no sense.
Verify the name.
Verify the date.
Verify the specimen.
Verify the laboratory.
I checked everything.
The report was real.
Ethan Fleming.
Connor Fleming.
DNA relationship analysis.
Excluded.
Connor stepped closer.
“Kirsten.”
Melinda whispered:
“Don't.”
He turned toward her.
“What?”
“Connor, please.”
His expression changed.
That was the moment he understood that whatever was in my hands, his wife already knew.
He reached for the report.
I moved it away.
“Kirsten, give me that.”
“No.”
“That's about my son.”
Kenneth stepped between us.
“Don't touch my client.”
Connor laughed.
But there was no humor in it.
“Your client? What the hell is going on?”
I finally looked at him.
“You wanted to know what the report says.”
“Yes.”
I held his gaze.
“It says Ethan isn't your biological son.”
Silence.
Complete.
Absolute.
Even the sounds of the pediatric floor seemed to disappear.
Connor stared at me.
Then he smiled.
It was automatic.
A reflex.
“No.”
I said nothing.
“No.”
He looked at Kenneth.
“That's impossible.”
Kenneth's expression didn't change.
“The laboratory repeated the analysis.”
“Why was there an analysis in the first place?”
Kenneth glanced at me.
That was a good question.
One I wanted answered too.
“The sample was obtained through records connected to an insurance investigation arising from the divorce.”
Connor's eyes narrowed.
“What insurance investigation?”
“We'll discuss that through counsel.”
Connor ignored him.
He looked at Melinda.
“Tell her.”
Melinda was crying.
“Tell her the test is wrong.”
Nothing.
“Melinda.”
Ethan began fussing.
She crouched beside the stroller.
Her hands shook so badly she couldn't retrieve the bottle from the floor.
I picked it up before she could.
The cap had stayed on.
I handed it to her.
She couldn't look at me.
Connor watched the exchange.
Then something inside him snapped.
“WHO IS HIS FATHER?”
Several nurses turned.
I stepped closer.
“Lower your voice.”
He stared at me.
“This is a hospital.”
“I don't care.”
“I do.”
Ethan started crying harder.
That changed me immediately.
Whatever Connor and Melinda had done, the child didn't deserve to be terrified in a hospital hallway.
I crouched.
“Hey, buddy.”
Ethan looked at me through wet eyes.
“It's okay.”
Connor laughed bitterly.
“Don't pretend you care.”
I stood.
“I'm a pediatrician, Connor. Caring about children who didn't create their parents' problems is literally my job.”
His face tightened.
Melinda whispered:
“We need somewhere private.”
Finally, something sensible.
Kenneth arranged a small family consultation room.
I told my department chief I had an urgent legal matter.
Ten minutes later, the five of us were inside.
Ethan sat on Melinda's lap.
Connor refused to sit.
I remained near the door.
Kenneth placed the reports on the table.
Connor pointed.
“Explain.”
Kenneth spoke calmly.
“During post-divorce reconciliation of your insurance records, we discovered claims associated with reproductive services that did not correspond to the records Kirsten had retained.”
Connor frowned.
“What?”
“Several laboratory procedures were billed under a policy associated with your former marriage.”
“I don't know anything about billing.”
“That became apparent.”
Connor glared.
Kenneth continued.
“One set of records referenced stored biological material.”
My pulse increased.
I looked at him.
“Whose?”
He didn't answer yet.
“Kenneth.”
“Yours.”
The room tilted.
“My what?”
“Stored embryos.”
I stared.
“No.”
Melinda started crying harder.
I looked at her.
“No.”
My voice came out differently.
“I didn't have stored embryos.”
Kenneth's expression told me otherwise.
During my marriage, Connor and I had undergone two IVF cycles.
The first produced three viable embryos.
One transfer failed.
A second ended in an early miscarriage.
The clinic told us the third embryo had stopped developing before freezing.
I remembered the phone call.
I had been sitting in my car outside the hospital.
The embryologist told me there was nothing left to preserve.
I cried for forty minutes before I could drive.
“We had no embryos remaining.”
Kenneth slowly shook his head.
“According to the records we obtained, that's not true.”
I turned toward Melinda.
She was staring at Ethan.
My stomach dropped.
“No.”
She closed her eyes.
“No.”
Connor looked between us.
“What are you saying?”
I couldn't breathe.
Kenneth slid the second report toward me.
I already knew what I would see.
Still, my hands shook when I picked it up.
Tested relationship: Biological maternity.
My name.
Kirsten Sinclair.
Ethan Fleming.
Then:
Probability of biological maternity: 99.9998%.
I stopped hearing the room.
I looked at Ethan.
His blond hair.
His blue-gray eyes.
The tiny crease near his left eyebrow.
My mother had that crease.
So did I.
No.
Impossible.
My knees weakened.
I sat.
Connor grabbed the report.
He read.
Then looked at Ethan.
Then at me.
“What the hell is this?”
Melinda sobbed.
“I'm sorry.”
I looked at her.
I had imagined confronting Melinda hundreds of times after discovering the affair.
In those fantasies, I screamed.
Called her names.
Asked how she could sleep with my husband while pretending to comfort me.
But this?
There was no fantasy for this.
“Is Ethan my biological child?”
Melinda covered her mouth.
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
One word.
My entire life split open.
Connor backed away.
“No.”
He looked at Melinda.
“No. You got pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“With our baby.”
She shook her head.
Connor stared.
“What does that mean?”
Melinda looked at me.
“I carried him.”
My chest stopped moving.
“But the embryo…”
She couldn't finish.
I did.
“Was mine.”
She nodded.
Connor slammed his hand against the wall.
Ethan screamed.
I stood immediately.
“Stop!”
Connor turned.
“You knew?”
I laughed in disbelief.
“You think I knew?”
“He's genetically yours!”
“And apparently not yours.”
That landed.
Connor went white.
I regretted saying it immediately—not because of Connor, but because Ethan was in the room.
I lowered my voice.
“Take him outside.”
Melinda held Ethan tighter.
“No.”
“Then calm down.”
Connor pointed at her.
“Whose sperm?”
Melinda shook her head.
“Connor—”
“WHOSE?”
Ethan cried harder.
Kenneth opened the door.
“Mr. Fleming, step outside or hospital security will remove you.”
Connor ignored him.
I looked at Melinda.
“Whose sperm was used?”
She whispered:
“A donor.”
Connor froze.
I froze too.
“A donor?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She started shaking.
“Because…”
“Because what?”
She looked at Connor.
“I found out before you did.”
His face changed.
“Found out what?”
“That you couldn't have children.”
Connor laughed.
“What are you talking about?”
Melinda closed her eyes.
“You're infertile.”
That sentence hit him harder than anything else.
“No.”
“You had testing.”
“No.”
“Connor.”
“I NEVER HAD TESTING.”
“You did.”
He stared.
“When?”
Melinda looked at me.
I knew.
During our marriage.
One fertility specialist had recommended male-factor testing after our second failed cycle.
Connor told me his results were normal.
He said the problem was me.
I remembered sitting beside him in our bedroom.
“Doctor says I'm fine.”
Then:
“We need to start accepting reality, Kirsten.”
Reality.
I stared at him.
“You were tested.”
His face went blank.
Then pale.
Melinda whispered:
“You had severe azoospermia.”
No sperm.
Or essentially none.
Connor looked as though someone had punched him.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Melinda didn't answer.
I did.
“You accessed my records.”
She looked at me.
“Kirsten—”
“You worked at the clinic.”
Melinda had been a patient-services coordinator at the fertility center for eighteen months.
I had forgotten.
Because at the time, I trusted her.
She helped schedule appointments.
Called me with updates.
Brought coffee.
Sat beside me.
My best friend.
“Oh my God.”
I stood.
“You knew.”
Tears ran down her face.
“I found out accidentally.”
“No.”
“I swear.”
“You accessed confidential medical records.”
“I saw Connor's report.”
“And?”
“I confronted him.”
Connor snapped:
“You never confronted me.”
“Not then.”
Something shifted.
I looked between them.
“When did the affair start?”
Neither answered.
“WHEN?”
Melinda whispered:
“After the second IVF cycle.”
My hands went cold.
Before our divorce.
Long before.
“How did you get my embryo?”
She broke.
Completely.
“I didn't steal it.”
I laughed.
“Then how did my embryo end up inside your body?”
“Connor signed the authorization.”
The room went silent.
I looked at my ex-husband.
Connor looked genuinely confused.
“What authorization?”
Melinda stared.
“You told me you handled it.”
“Handled what?”
“The transfer.”
“What transfer?”
She stopped.
And suddenly, I saw something even more terrifying.
Connor hadn't known Ethan wasn't genetically his.
But maybe he had known something else.
“Connor.”
He looked at me.
“Did you authorize disposal of our remaining embryo?”
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
That was enough.
“You did.”
“Kirsten—”
“You told me it died.”
“I didn't tell you that.”
“You sat beside me after the clinic called.”
“I thought—”
“What did you sign?”
He looked down.
“A consent form.”
“For what?”
“I don't remember.”
“You remember.”
“I thought it was about ending storage.”
“There was no storage because I was told the embryo wasn't viable.”
Connor looked at Melinda.
She was crying silently now.
Kenneth spoke.
“The clinic records show a disposition authorization bearing Connor's signature.”
“And mine?”
“Also yours.”
“I never signed it.”
“We know.”
My stomach dropped.
“Forged?”
Kenneth nodded.
The room became very cold.
“Who forged it?”
He looked toward Melinda.
She didn't deny it.
Connor stepped away from her.
“Oh my God.”
I stared at my former best friend.
“You forged my signature.”
She sobbed.
“I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Losing him.”
I laughed.
A broken, ugly sound.
“So you stole my embryo?”
“No!”
“What word would you prefer?”
“I didn't know what to do.”
“You could have done literally anything except this.”
Melinda held Ethan.
He had stopped crying.
His little hand rested against her chest.
My child.
Biologically.
But her child too.
She had carried him.
Given birth to him.
Fed him.
Held him through fever and teething and midnight crying.
This wasn't simple.
Nothing about this was simple.
I looked at Ethan.
Then at Kenneth.
“What happens now?”
He answered carefully.
“That is why I came personally.”
Connor looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
Kenneth closed the folder.
“It means this is no longer only a divorce matter.”
He looked at Melinda.
“It's potentially criminal.”
Then at me.
“And Kirsten, before you do anything else, you need independent reproductive-law counsel.”
I barely heard him.
Because Ethan had reached toward me.
One tiny hand.
Open.
Trusting.
He didn't know who I was.
But according to the paper on the table—
I was his biological mother.
May you like
And one year after losing my husband, my marriage, and the future I'd thought I would have—
I had just discovered that the child I'd spent seven years believing I could never have had been alive the entire time.
