I noticed.
Connor noticed too.
His eyes narrowed.
Kenneth placed the sealed folder on the table but did not open it immediately. He looked at me first.
“Kirsten, before I say anything else, I need to remind you that some of this may be upsetting.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of my tablet.
“I understood that when you came to my workplace with a sealed legal folder.”
A faint sadness crossed his face. “Fair enough.”
Connor leaned back. “This is all very dramatic.”
Kenneth finally opened the folder.
The room seemed to shrink around the sound of paper sliding against paper.
“During the divorce,” Kenneth said, “there were unresolved financial discrepancies. Kirsten chose not to pursue them aggressively at the time.”
Connor’s mouth curled. “Because there weren’t any.”
“Because she was exhausted,” Kenneth corrected.
I looked down.
That was true.
At the time, I had wanted the divorce over more than I wanted answers. I was working long shifts. My father was recovering from heart surgery. My marriage had become a house with all the lights off, and I no longer had the strength to search every room.
I had signed papers just to be free.
Kenneth continued. “Several months ago, a routine audit connected to a closed joint account revealed payments made from marital funds to an out-of-state reproductive storage facility.”
My breath caught.
Connor stopped moving.
Melinda closed her eyes.
“What?” I said.
Kenneth slid one paper toward me.
I did not touch it at first.
The logo at the top was unfamiliar, but the language beneath it was not. Cryogenic storage. Embryology transfer. Release authorization.
Medical words. Legal words.
Words from a life I thought had ended.
“Kenneth,” I whispered.
He spoke carefully. “The clinic where you and Connor underwent treatment closed two years ago after merging with a larger network. Some stored genetic materials were transferred to partner facilities. You were never notified.”
“That’s impossible,” I said.
