“The actual answer is complicated,” he said. “You may have claims related to fraud, emotional damages, and consent violations. Parentage is more delicate. Courts focus heavily on the child’s stability.”
“Good.”
Kenneth looked at me.
“I mean it,” I said. “Whatever Connor did, Elliot didn’t do it. I don’t want him turned into evidence with a bedtime routine.”
Something like respect moved through Kenneth’s face.
“That will matter,” he said.
“Will it?”
“Yes. Not always quickly. Not always enough. But it will.”
I rubbed my eyes. “I spent years thinking I couldn’t have a child. Now I may have one who calls someone else mother.”
Kenneth was quiet.
There was no comforting answer.
I appreciated that he did not invent one.
After a moment, he opened another folder.
“This is what I wanted to discuss privately.”
The third-party involvement.
Dana.
He slid a photo across the desk.
It was a grainy image from what looked like a professional directory. A woman in her late forties, dark hair cut to her chin, silver glasses, polite smile.
My stomach tightened.
“Dana Morales,” Kenneth said. “Former administrative coordinator at the fertility clinic. She left shortly after the merger.”
“I remember her.”
“She currently works as an independent patient advocate.”
“Is that legal?”
“Yes, if done properly. But she also appears to have a small consulting company. Connor’s business paid that company twenty-five thousand dollars around the same time the release documents were processed.”
I stared at the photo.
Lavender perfume.
Silver glasses.
A kind voice on the phone.
Mrs. Fleming, I know this process is hard. We’ll take good care of everything.
I had believed her.
“Why would she do it?” I asked.
“Money, perhaps. Loyalty to Connor. Pressure. We don’t know.”
I picked up the photo.
Something about her eyes made memory stir again.
“She knew me,” I said.
Kenneth frowned. “From the clinic.”
“No.” I shook my head slowly. “Before that.”
He waited.
I searched through years of faces. Hospital fundraisers. Medical school events. Fertility seminars. Charity panels. Waiting rooms. Conference badges.
Then it came to me.
“My mother,” I whispered.
Kenneth leaned forward. “What about her?”
“Dana worked for my mother’s oncologist years ago. Not as a nurse. Front desk, maybe billing. I remember because she sent flowers after my mother died.” I looked up. “Why would she later work at my fertility clinic?”
Kenneth’s expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Enough.
“That may be coincidence,” he said.
“But you don’t think it is.”
