Chapter 4: The Daughter Evelyn Never Wanted
Noah closed his laptop.
“Claire, I need you to sit down.””
I didn't move.
“Tell me what happened.””
He looked at Grant.
“Your mother needs to explain this.””
Grant stood with his hands clenched.
“I don't know what she's talking about.””
“You just admitted she was manipulating medical records.””
“I admitted she handled the arrangements.””
“Those aren't the same thing.””
Madison wiped her face.
“I'm leaving.””
I turned toward her.
“Where will you go?””
She shrugged.
“Anywhere.””
“You're seven months pregnant.””
“I know.””
“Do you have somewhere safe?””
She shook her head.
Grant stepped forward.
“Madison, come home.””
She laughed.
“Home? Your mother changed the locks.””
“She's upset.””
“She told me I was no longer useful.””
Grant looked away.
For the first time, he seemed unable to find an excuse.
Noah picked up his phone.
“Rachel can arrange a room at the clinic where she works. You'll have medical supervision.””
Madison looked at him.
“Why are you helping me?””
“Because you need help.””
She nodded slowly.
“Thank you.””
Grant turned toward me.
“Claire, please.””
I looked at him.
“Leave.””
He hesitated.
“Can we speak tomorrow?””
“No.””
“Claire…”
“Your mother has my number. If she wants to explain something, she can do it through my attorney.””
He looked down at the ultrasound photograph in my hand.
Then he left.
That evening, Noah drove me to his sister's medical office.
Rachel Parker was a pediatrician with a small private practice near the coast.
She greeted Madison with a warm smile and arranged for an obstetric specialist to review her records.
When Madison was taken to an examination room, Rachel pulled me aside.
“Noah told me what happened.””
I nodded.
“I'm sorry to involve you.””
“Don't be ridiculous.””
She squeezed my hand.
“Are you eating properly?””
I almost laughed.
“Apparently, that's become a popular question.””
“Then I'll make you dinner.””
She didn't ask anything else.
For the first time in years, someone offered me food without making me feel guilty for needing it.
At nine that night, Noah sat across from me in his kitchen.
A folder lay between us.
“Your third embryo transfer wasn't the only one that concerns me,” he said.
I opened the folder.
There were copies of laboratory records.
My first two transfers had been marked unsuccessful.
My third transfer had been marked successful, followed by an early pregnancy loss.
But there was something strange.
The genetic testing attached to the first transfer showed a different patient reference number.
The second showed another.
And the third showed a code associated with Parker Genetic Services.
I looked up.
“Were my embryos switched?””
“I can't say that yet.””
“Then what can you say?””
Noah rubbed his forehead.
“My father kept a private archive of reproductive laboratory investigations. Before his death, he suspected that someone had been altering donor records at several clinics.””
“Did he report it?””
“He tried.””
“To whom?””
“The medical licensing board. But the investigation was closed before he could provide all the evidence.””
I felt cold.
“Why?””
“Because the company was sold. The new owners claimed the records were incomplete.””
“Who bought it?””
“Whitmore Holdings.””
I stared at him.
Noah opened another page.
“My father left behind a list of patients whose records he believed had been altered.””
He turned the page.
My name was there.
Claire Bennett.
Not Claire Whitmore.
My maiden name.
Beside it was a handwritten note.
Patient's genetic material may have been retained without informed consent.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
“What does that mean?””
Noah spoke carefully.
“It means someone may have used your genetic material in another patient's treatment.””
I thought of Madison.
Her donor number.
My embryo code.
Evelyn's phone call.
I felt sick.
“Are you saying those twins might be genetically mine?””
“It's possible.””
The room became silent.
I placed the paper down.
“No.””
“Claire—”
“No. I lost that pregnancy.””
“I understand.””
“No, you don't.””
I stood so quickly that the chair scraped against the floor.
“I buried that child in my mind. I spent months blaming myself. I believed my body had failed me again.””
Noah stood too.
“Claire, listen.””
“And now you're telling me my embryo might have been taken?””
“We need proof.””
I pressed both hands against the counter.
I couldn't breathe properly.
For years, Evelyn had called me defective.
She had whispered that I was incapable of giving the Whitmore family an heir.
At Thanksgiving, she had once lifted her wineglass and announced that perhaps Grant should consider a wife with healthier genetics.
Everyone had laughed nervously.
Grant had stared at his plate.
I had gone home and cried in the bathroom.
And all that time, Evelyn might have been holding the key to my pregnancy.
My child.
My lost child.
I looked at Noah.
“Why would she do that?””
He didn't answer.
My phone rang.
An unknown Manhattan number.
I answered.
“Hello?””
A woman's voice spoke.
“Mrs. Whitmore?””
“Who is this?””
“My name is Dr. Helen Morris. I was formerly employed at Westlake Reproductive Center.””
My heartbeat quickened.
“What do you want?””
“I need to speak with you about your medical records.””
“Why?””
“Because I was the embryology technician assigned to your third transfer.””
I gripped the counter.
“Do you know what happened?””
There was a pause.
Then she said:
“I know your embryo was not discarded.””
My knees weakened.
“What?””
“It was transferred to another patient.””
I closed my eyes.
“Madison?””
Another pause.
“Yes.””
I couldn't speak.
The woman continued.
“I have the original laboratory log. It contains the names of everyone who authorized the transfer.””
“Why are you calling me now?””
“Because someone has discovered that I've kept a copy.””
I heard a door slam in the background.
Then her voice became urgent.
“Mrs. Whitmore, you need to understand something. The embryo wasn't transferred by mistake.””
I swallowed.
“Who ordered it?””
Dr. Morris lowered her voice.
“Evelyn Whitmore.””
My hand began shaking.
“Why?””
The technician took a breath.
“Because your husband was never supposed to have a child with you.””
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Noah reached for my arm.
“Claire?””
I looked at him.
“She said Evelyn ordered it.””
His jaw tightened.
“Did she tell you where the original records are?””
I shook my head.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text message.
An unknown number.
Don't trust Noah Parker. His father helped Evelyn make the transfer possible.
I slowly turned toward him.
Noah saw my expression.
“What is it?””
I showed him the message.
He read it.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he walked to the fireplace and opened a small locked drawer.
He removed an old photograph.
A younger Robert Parker stood beside Evelyn Whitmore.
May you like
And between them was a woman I recognized.
My mother.
