The detective’s envelope hit the table between us with the soft thud of paper carrying consequences. Security photos. Handwriting analysis. The forged consent form, my name copied almost perfectly—loops right, underline right, spacing right—except for the missing middle initial I had signed with on every document for years. Patricia’s denial cracked in real time: I only drove Megan there became I knew they were using one of the stored embryos before she could stop herself. Ryan arrived furious, Megan arrived shaking, and the room filled with competing versions of permission that had never been given. There was a baby now, Lily, nine months old, built from the last remaining piece of a life I had been told to grieve and leave behind. Everyone else argued about what I had abandoned. I stared at the documents and realized what they had stolen instead—my fut… Continues…
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