I had kept it hidden, hoping the doctors were wrong, hoping the zero-percent motility report was a temporary anomaly. But the subsequent tests, filed under a corporate medical insurance code I had quietly tracked, had confirmed the permanent biological truth.
Evan was entirely, irreversibly infertile.
I held the sealed envelope against my side, its heavy parchment paper crisp against my palm.
The sound of Leah’s quiet voice came through the floorboards from the kitchen below, followed by the low, rumbling tone of Evan’s laugh. They were already arranging the nursery in their minds, claiming the house my father had built.
I zipped the navy suitcase, took a deep breath, and walked back down the stairs with the sealed envelope in my right hand.
They were still standing in the dining room when I returned, the blue eighty-million-dollar check still resting near Margaret’s handbag.
Evan looked up, a thin smirk appearing on his face when he saw the single suitcase in my hand. “Smart move, Claire. We can have the movers pack the rest of your things on Monday.”
