“Did you ever see the original paperwork from the clinic?”
“I signed forms,” I said. “I thought they were for our embryos.”
“Did you read every page?”
“I read what they put in front of me. Peter was there. The nurse said everything was in order.”
Rachel fought tears but spoke firmly.
“You had every reason to trust him. This is not your fault.”
When a nurse announced Peter was outside, I refused him entry. Rachel drew her chair closer and promised not to leave.
Messages from him quickly accumulated:
I’m worried about you.
Please tell me where you are.
I can explain everything.
I placed my phone screen down. His apparent concern now felt staged, and I wouldn’t participate.
That evening Rachel and I requested my entire fertility-clinic record, including signed consents, laboratory and embryo identifiers, transfer notes, and account-access logs. I submitted it shortly before midnight.
