Chapter 13 - THE SIGNATURES
A forensic document examiner compared the forms.
My signature had been copied from an old fertility-consent form.
Julian’s had likely been copied from cryogenic-storage paperwork.
Neither was original.
That narrowed the path.
Mercer had access to both.
So did Martin, potentially.
So did Queen City after transfer.
No easy answer.
Martin denied involvement.
Julian believed him about the signatures.
I did not know whether I did.
Garrison found something more useful.
A payment ledger inside Mercer’s archive.
Six weeks before my insemination:
Consulting contribution — $25,000.
Source:
Piedmont Women’s Research Foundation Reserve.
Authorized by:
M. Brooks.
Martin.
We confronted him again.
He looked defeated.
“I funded Mercer’s record preservation.”
“Why?”
“He said he was closing out legacy cases.”
“Did you know Emma was one of them?”
“No.”
“Did you know he was still working on compatibility models?”
“Yes.”
Julian stood.
“You gave him money.”
“I thought I was paying him to organize records.”
“You gave a doctor who lost his license twenty-five thousand dollars to preserve secret reproductive files.”
Martin looked at his son.
“Yes.”
That yes ended their relationship more effectively than shouting.
Julian walked out.
He did not come back.
Martin remained seated.
I asked, “Did you forge the consent?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Mercer to use me?”
“No.”
“Did you know he might?”
A long pause.
“I knew he was obsessed with proving his model.”
That was not enough for criminal certainty.
It was enough for me.
“You fed the obsession.”
Martin looked down.
“Yes.”
The family lines finally clarified.
Mercer designed the experiment.
Martin enabled him with money, access, and silence.
Chloe allowed the actual cycle to proceed because stopping it risked exposing her affair and unauthorized access.
Julian learned enough afterward to know something might be wrong but stayed silent because he wanted the possibility of biological children without accepting responsibility.
Queen City’s systems failed to recognize two biological sources under one donor profile.
Garrison and I were used.
Our consent did not exist.
That mattered.
The pregnancies were not evidence of relationships.
They were evidence of stolen choices.
The next phase became preparation for birth.
I stopped attending every legal meeting.
Claire handled what she could.
I went to prenatal appointments.
Washed tiny clothes.
Assembled two bassinets with my mother.
Argued with an online retailer over a missing stroller adapter.
Normal problems became precious.
Julian asked whether he could attend the delivery.
“No.”
He accepted it.
That surprised me.
“Can I come after?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
No pressure.
Maybe consequences were finally teaching him something.
Garrison asked for nothing.
Not updates.
Not access.
Not reassurance.
Once a week he texted:
Need anything from the store?
Usually I said no.
Once I said milk.
He left it on the porch.
That restraint mattered more than declarations would have.
At thirty-five weeks, Dr. Patel scheduled a C-section because Baby B remained breech and my blood pressure had begun creeping upward.
The night before surgery, I sat alone in the nursery.
Two empty bassinets.
Two folded blankets.
Two lives everyone wanted to define before they arrived.
My phone buzzed.
Julian.
I almost ignored it.
Then I read:
Whatever the test says, I’m sorry I made their existence about me before they were even born.
I stared at the message.
No request.
No excuse.
I saved it.
Then another message arrived.
Unknown number.
A photograph.
Adrian Mercer leaving a grocery store in Asheville that afternoon.
Underneath:
He says he’ll testify if Emma agrees to hear why he chose those two men.
I deleted the message.
Not because I wasn’t curious.
May you like
Because the babies were coming in twelve hours.
And Mercer had already taken enough of my attention.
