But then I noticed another folded paper at the bottom of the drawer.
This one wasn’t addressed to me.
It was a printed message from a fertility clinic.
Dear Mrs. Miller,
We have attempted to reach you regarding the status of your stored specimen and pending consent forms. Please contact our office as soon as possible to discuss next steps.
Stored specimen.
Pending consent forms.
My mind raced backward through the years.
After the second miscarriage, Sophie’s doctor had briefly mentioned genetic testing and fertility options. We had been too devastated to continue the conversation. Or maybe I had been too devastated. Maybe Sophie had listened to more than I knew.
I took a photo of the letterhead but left the paper where it was.
Then I drove back to the hospital with Sophie’s clothes, her charger, and the letter tucked safely in my jacket pocket.
When I arrived, she was awake.
The afternoon sun fell across her blanket. She looked tired, but there was more color in her face than before.
“You read it,” she said.
I nodded.
She watched me carefully.
“I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you.”
“I’m sorry you had to write it.”
Her eyes filled.
I sat beside her.
“There’s something I need to ask,” I said.
Her expression shifted.
“Okay.”
I hesitated, suddenly afraid of the answer.
“At your apartment, I saw an appointment card. On the back, you wrote, ‘Ask about embryo.’”
All the color drained from her face.
The change was so immediate that my heart slammed against my ribs.
“Sophie?”
She turned toward the window.
“Sophie, what does that mean?”
She didn’t answer.
I reached into my jacket and took out the folded letter, not the clinic notice. I placed it gently on the bed between us.
“In your letter, you wrote that the doctor mentioned unusual hormone levels. You said part of you was afraid to hope. Was there something else you didn’t tell me?”
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, “After the 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.”
