Chapter 5 - THE DOCTOR WHO STOLE MY CONSENT HAD DONE IT BEFORE
Hartwell Reproductive Medicine closed three months later.
Not because of me alone.
The investigation uncovered twenty-seven serious consent violations.
Three involved embryo disposition.
Nine involved unauthorized record access.
Others involved billing, genetic testing and falsified chart entries.
Dr. Haskins surrendered his medical license before the board could revoke it.
Then prosecutors charged him.
Forgery.
Fraud.
Unlawful medical conduct.
Conspiracy.
The exact charges changed as the case developed.
I cared less about their names than I expected.
I cared about one question.
Why?
At his deposition, Haskins finally answered.
He had started by “helping.”
That was his word.
Helping.
A wealthy patient needed a scheduling exception.
A donor wanted anonymity beyond standard policy.
A couple wanted records adjusted to avoid an insurance problem.
Each time, Haskins told himself rules were obstacles.
Then came money.
Influence.
Favors.
By the time Melinda approached him, he had spent years deciding that consent was flexible when inconvenient.
My case was simply the most extreme.
“You knew I hadn't signed.”
Rebecca asked.
Haskins stared at the table.
“Yes.”
“You knew Dr. Sinclair believed the embryo was nonviable.”
“Yes.”
“You authorized a chart entry stating that.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Connor said the marriage was ending.”
My entire body went cold.
Rebecca's voice sharpened.
“So?”
“He claimed the embryo was jointly created.”
“Was Dr. Sinclair a human being or a joint bank account?”
Haskins said nothing.
“You transferred her genetic material into another woman because her husband said their marriage was ending?”
“I made a terrible judgment.”
I nearly stood.
Rebecca touched my wrist.
Stay.
She continued.
“Did you receive money?”
Haskins hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-five thousand.”
Melinda's father had paid it through a consulting arrangement.
Twenty-five thousand dollars.
That was the price placed on my consent.
I left the deposition and vomited in the courthouse bathroom.
Then I washed my face.
Went back.
And finished.
Connor's situation deteriorated.
The evidence established he participated knowingly in the unauthorized transfer.
He eventually faced criminal charges related to forgery conspiracy and medical-record misuse.
He blamed Melinda.
Then Haskins.
Then me.
Always me.
He told an evaluator:
“Kirsten pushed me into this because she couldn't let go of having children.”
When I read that sentence, I laughed.
Then I gave the report back.
“I'm done reacting to him.”
And I meant it.
My contact with Ethan increased.
One hour became three.
Three became afternoons.
Eventually, I was allowed unsupervised visits.
I learned things DNA reports don't tell you.
Ethan hated peas.
Loved blueberries.
Was terrified of automatic hand dryers.
Called every dog “Bo.”
Nobody knew why.
He loved wheels.
Trucks.
Strollers.
Hospital carts.
Anything that rolled.
The first word he called me was not Mom.
Thank God.
I wasn't ready.
He called me “Kiki.”
Kirsten was too difficult.
Kiki.
The first time, I cried in my car.
The second time, I answered.
Melinda and I developed something I never expected.
Not friendship.
Never again.
But cooperation.
We used a parenting app.
Every conversation documented.
Schedules.
Medical information.
Photos.
Updates.
She never asked me to forgive her.
That helped.
One evening, she sent:
Ethan has a fever. 101.7. Pediatrician says likely viral. He's drinking fluids.
I called immediately.
Doctor brain.
“What is his respiratory rate?”
She laughed weakly.
“I knew you'd ask.”
“Melinda.”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Wet diapers?”
“Normal.”
“Any rash?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Then silence.
“Do you want to come over?”
I froze.
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
Honest.
“But he keeps saying Kiki.”
That destroyed me.
I drove over.
Ethan was miserable.
Hot cheeks.
Sleepy eyes.
He reached for me.
I held him on the couch.
Melinda sat across the room.
At midnight, his fever dropped.
He fell asleep against my chest.
Melinda whispered:
“You're good with him.”
“I'm a pediatrician.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“Not like that.”
I looked at Ethan.
“Why did you do it?”
She closed her eyes.
We had discussed facts.
Never this.
“Why did you take him?”
She cried quietly.
“Because I wanted everything you had.”
I stared.
“What?”
“You were always…”
She searched.
“Certain.”
I almost laughed.
“You watched me cry through infertility.”
“I know.”
“You thought I was certain?”
“Career. House. Marriage. Everyone respected you.”
“So you slept with Connor?”
“Yes.”
“At least you're honest.”
“I thought if he chose me, it meant I mattered.”
“That isn't about me.”
“I know now.”
“And the embryo?”
She looked at Ethan.
“Connor wanted a child. I wanted Connor.”
“So you gave him one.”
“I thought I was.”
“But he couldn't biologically father one.”
“I found out.”
“So you used donor sperm.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Without telling him.”
“Yes.”
“And my embryo.”
“Yes.”
I looked down at Ethan.
This beautiful little boy existed because of an obscene series of betrayals.
That was difficult to hold in my mind.
Because I would never wish him away.
Yet I would never excuse what created the circumstances of his birth.
Both could be true.
“I don't forgive you.”
Melinda nodded.
“I know.”
“I may never.”
“I know.”
“But I will not make Ethan pay for it.”
She started crying.
“Thank you.”
“Don't thank me.”
I looked at her.
“Just never lie to me about him.”
“I won't.”
“If he's sick, tell me.”
“I will.”
“If you're struggling, tell me.”
She nodded.
“And if you ever make a decision involving his body, health or identity without proper consent again, I will fight you with everything I have.”
“I understand.”
Good.
Boundaries.
Clear.
No performance.
No pretending.
At 2:00 a.m., Ethan woke.
He looked at me.
“Kiki.”
“Hey, buddy.”
Then:
“Mama.”
My heart stopped.
I looked at Melinda.
He reached toward her.
“Mama.”
She picked him up.
Relief and pain moved through me simultaneously.
Of course she was Mama.
She had earned that word through diapers and sleepless nights and feeding and holding.
Biology didn't erase lived parenthood.
I was Kiki.
For now.
May you like
And strangely—
that was enough.
