The master closet was larger than the bedroom I had shared with my sister when we were girls. I pulled a navy leather suitcase from the top shelf and set it on the packing island.
I did not touch the designer dresses or the silk blouses Evan had bought for corporate galas. I packed three pairs of dark trousers, four cotton shirts, and my passport from the leather tray by the mirror.
From the small digital safe behind the cedar panel, I retrieved my passport and my mother’s vintage gold wristwatch, slipping it onto my wrist and fastening the leather strap.
Beside the velvet jewelry boxes lay a thick, sealed white envelope from the Austin Diagnostic Laboratory.
It had arrived by courier three days ago, marked confidential and addressed directly to me. Inside were the certified results of the semen analysis Evan had taken under a false name during our second year of fertility
