Chapter 4
I drove to Emma’s house with Rebecca beside me.
Cole followed in another car because I refused to sit near him.
We left our home behind with baby-shower decorations still hanging inside.
Nothing felt real anymore.
Emma opened the door.
Eli was in the living room building a Lego spaceship.
He looked up.
“Aunt Hannah!”
My heart shattered.
He ran toward me.
I froze.
He hugged my waist carefully because everyone had taught him not to squeeze my pregnant belly.
“Did you bring cake?”
I started crying.
Eli pulled back.
“Why are you sad?”
I crouched slowly.
My son.
Biologically.
Maybe.
According to Darla.
But he didn’t know.
To him, I was Aunt Hannah.
I touched his cheek.
“I had a hard day.”
He nodded seriously.
“Grandma Darla says chocolate fixes hard days.”
Of course she did.
“Go finish your spaceship, okay?”
“Okay.”
He ran back.
Emma stared at me.
“What happened?”
Then she saw Cole behind us.
Then our mother arrived.
Darla looked terrified.
Emma crossed her arms.
“Someone better explain.”
Rebecca said:
“Not in front of Eli.”
We moved into Emma’s office.
Darla closed the door.
I immediately asked:
“Is Eli biologically mine?”
She cried.
“Yes.”
Emma went white.
“What?”
I looked at her.
“Mom allowed a clinic to fertilize my eggs without my consent.”
Emma sat down.
“No.”
“And one embryo became Eli.”
Emma stared at Darla.
“Tell me she’s lying.”
Darla covered her face.
“I was trying to protect Hannah.”
I almost laughed.
“From what?”
“The truth.”
“Exactly.”
“That isn’t protection.”
Darla sank into the chair.
Then she told us everything.
At nineteen, I underwent egg retrieval before surgery.
Twelve eggs were collected.
Darla signed supplemental forms at Northstar.
She claimed she believed they allowed research on unusable eggs.
“They didn’t,” Rebecca said.
Darla nodded.
“I know now.”
Years later, Mitchell told her the clinic had fertilized viable eggs with donor sperm.
Three embryos developed.
One was transferred into a paid surrogate as part of an illegal experimental program.
The surrogate carried Eli.
“What happened to her?”
“She gave birth and disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“She was paid.”
“Name.”
Darla hesitated.
“Rachel Moreno.”
Rebecca wrote it down.
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
I stared at my mother.
“How did Eli become your foster child?”
That was the part she struggled to say.
When Eli was five, Mitchell contacted Darla.
The couple who had been raising him were divorcing.
“What couple?”
“Researchers connected to Northstar.”
My stomach turned.
“They raised my child?”
“Yes.”
“Did they adopt him?”
“Not legally.”
Rebecca’s eyes sharpened.
“What?”
Apparently Eli’s birth documentation had been falsified.
The surrogate was listed as mother.
A man connected to Northstar listed as father.
When their relationship collapsed, child services became involved after allegations of neglect.
Darla recognized Eli’s name from old records.
She applied to foster him using her legitimate credentials as a retired school counselor.
“You brought him into our family.”
“Yes.”
“And still didn’t tell me.”
“I was afraid.”
“Of prison?”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
At least honesty.
“If the fertility crime came out, I thought I would go to jail.”
“You should have cared that I had a son.”
“I did.”
“You cared enough to raise him yourself.”
She flinched.
“I thought I was correcting my mistake.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“You stole another part of motherhood from me.”
Darla sobbed.
“I know.”
“You watched me struggle with infertility.”
“I know.”
“You watched me inject hormones.”
“I know.”
“You watched me cry after failed cycles.”
“I know.”
“While my child slept in your house.”
Emma started crying too.
The cruelty of it filled the room.
Then I turned toward Cole.
“And you knew there was a child.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t know it was Eli?”
“No.”
I believed him.
His shock downstairs had looked genuine.
That did not absolve him.
Rebecca asked:
“How many embryos remain?”
Darla whispered:
“Two.”
My blood ran cold.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I truly don’t.”
Northstar closed.
Assets transferred.
Records scattered.
One or both embryos might have been destroyed.
Stored.
Transferred.
Used.
I felt sick.
“My genetic children could exist somewhere.”
Rebecca put a hand on my shoulder.
“We’ll find records.”
Then Emma asked:
“What about Hannah’s current baby?”
Darla looked at my stomach.
“That’s why I was afraid.”
“What do you know?”
“The lab your doctor uses acquired Northstar cryogenic inventory.”
“Yes.”
“Mitchell said some old samples were mislabeled.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before IVF?”
Silence.
I stared.
“You knew before?”
Darla began shaking.
“I suspected.”
“You let me go through IVF knowing the lab might have contaminated records?”
“I didn’t know for sure.”
“That’s what doctors are for!”
“I panicked.”
I screamed:
“You always panic after making decisions with my life!”
From the living room, Eli called:
“Grandma?”
We all went silent.
Darla wiped her face.
“I’m here, sweetheart.”
My heart twisted.
Eli loved her.
That complicated everything.
Justice for me could become trauma for him.
Rebecca seemed to read my face.
“One step at a time.”
I nodded.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Rebecca said:
“Answer.”
I did.
“Hello?”
A man spoke.
“Hannah Pierce?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Dr. Samuel Greene.”
I knew that name.
The fertility specialist who supervised my current IVF cycle.
My stomach tightened.
“How did you get my number?”
“Your attorney contacted our records department.”
Rebecca had already started moving.
“What happened?”
He sounded nervous.
“We reviewed your embryo identification file.”
My hand moved to my belly.
“And?”
“There is an irregularity.”
Cole stepped closer.
I backed away.
“What irregularity?”
“The genetic material recorded as Cole Pierce’s sample carries a different lab accession number from the sample actually used.”
The room disappeared.
“Say that in normal language.”
A pause.
“The embryo transferred to you may not have been fertilized with your husband’s sperm.”
Cole sat down hard.
Emma covered her mouth.
My mother started crying.
I pressed my palm against my daughter as she moved inside me.
“Whose sperm?”
“We do not yet know.”
“Was my egg used?”
“Yes.”
Relief hit me like air.
My daughter was genetically mine.
That mattered.
Then:
“We need confirmatory testing.”
“When?”
“Immediately.”
I looked at Rebecca.
She nodded.
Dr. Greene continued:
“There’s another issue.”
Of course.
“What?”
“The accession number corresponds to archived Northstar inventory.”
My blood turned cold.
“Meaning?”
“The donor material may be from the same storage system involved in the earlier case.”
I closed my eyes.
“Can you identify the donor?”
“We’re trying.”
Then he said:
“Mrs. Pierce, I need to ask if you know someone named Mitchell Grant.”
Everyone froze.
My mother whispered:
“No.”
Dr. Greene continued:
“His name appears on the chain-of-custody form.”
I looked at Darla.
She had gone completely white.
“What does Mitchell have to do with my baby?”
Darla shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
For once, I believed her.
That frightened me more.
May you like
Because it meant someone else had been controlling the secret.
And Mitchell Grant had been standing behind my family for almost a decade.
