Her breathing changed.
The monitor beside her gave a slightly quicker rhythm.
“Sophie,” I said softly, “please.”
She closed her eyes.
For a long moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer.
Then she whispered, “Afterthe last miscarriage, they ran more tests than usual.”
I stayed very still.
“One doctor thought there might have been a vanishing twin,” she continued. “Another thought the levels were from the tumor. Nothing was clear. Everything was confusing, and then the tumor became the urgent thing.”
I frowned.
“I don’t understand.”
She opened her eyes, and tears slid silently into her hairline.
“Before the divorce,” she said, “I went to a fertility specialist. Just once. I wanted to know if we still had options someday. Even if we weren’t okay yet. Even if I was sick.”
My chest tightened.
“And?”
She looked at me then.
Really looked at me.
“The clinic called while I was in the middle of the divorce paperwork. They said there was a problem with the consent forms. They said something had been preserved from one of the procedures after the miscarriage.”
