Chapter 3 - The Donor
Richard’s reaction bothered me immediately.
Everyone else looked confused.
He looked afraid.
Margaret turned toward him.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You just reacted.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Ethan stood.
“We’re leaving.”
This time, I agreed.
Not because I wanted to protect him.
Because the cramping had started.
A hard pressure tightened low across my abdomen.
I put one hand on the table.
Lauren noticed.
“Emily?”
“I’m fine.”
Another cramp hit.
I wasn’t fine.
Ethan was beside me instantly.
“What is it?”
“My stomach.”
His face changed.
“We’re going to the hospital.”
Margaret threw up both hands.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Now we’re doing this?”
Ethan stared at her.
“What?”
“She’s upset. She’s making herself cramp.”
I saw something break in my husband’s expression.
Finally.
Maybe too late.
But it broke.
“Mom, shut up.”
Margaret froze.
Nobody had ever spoken to her that way.
Ethan put his arm around me.
“You shoved my pregnant wife onto the floor. You do not get to say another word about whether she should be worried.”
Margaret looked stunned.
I wish I could say that made everything better.
It didn’t.
I still remembered him sitting silently while she insulted me.
One brave sentence after the damage didn’t erase years of cowardice.
Ethan drove me to Massachusetts General while Lauren followed in her car.
The ride felt twice as long as it was.
“Is she moving?” he kept asking.
“Yes.”
“Are you bleeding?”
“No.”
“Are the cramps getting worse?”
“No.”
Then, after a few minutes, he said, “You didn’t have to tell them.”
I looked out the window.
“Seriously?”
“I’m not defending my mother.”
“You’re worried about your secret right now?”
“I’m worried about everything.”
“So am I.”
He gripped the steering wheel.
“Why did you tell her I chose the donor?”
“Because you did.”
“I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
He didn’t answer.
At the hospital, they checked the baby’s heartbeat.
Strong.
They checked my cervix.
Closed.
The doctor said the cramps were likely from stress and the fall, but they wanted to observe me.
I cried when I heard the heartbeat.
I didn’t mean to.
It just happened.
Ethan sat beside the bed and held my hand.
For a few minutes, we were us again.
The couple who had sat in fertility clinics together.
The couple who cried in a parking garage after our first donor cycle failed.
The couple who had stared at two pink lines at six in the morning and laughed like idiots.
Then my phone buzzed.
Lauren.
I opened the text.
DAD IS ACTING WEIRD.
Another message came immediately.
MOM ASKED HIM WHY HE REACTED WHEN YOU SAID ETHAN PICKED THE DONOR.
I typed back.
WHAT DID HE SAY?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
HE WENT INTO HIS OFFICE AND LOCKED THE DOOR.
I showed Ethan.
The color left his face.
“Why would your dad care who the donor was?”
“He doesn’t.”
“He clearly does.”
“Emily, drop it.”
I stared at him.
There it was again.
Fear.
Not embarrassment.
Fear.
“Who did you choose?”
“You know who.”
“No. I know the profile you showed me.”
He stood.
“I need coffee.”
“Ethan.”
He stopped at the door.
I remembered our donor profile.
College educated.
Dark hair.
Green eyes.
Six feet tall.
No major hereditary illness.
Athletic.
Irish and Italian ancestry.
The clinic did not give us a name.
Or at least, I never saw one.
Ethan had handled most of the paperwork because the clinic’s donor portal overwhelmed me after months of treatment.
I looked at him.
“You knew who he was, didn’t you?”
His shoulders went rigid.
“Emily.”
My heart started pounding.
“The donor wasn’t anonymous to you.”
He slowly turned around.
And I knew the answer before he spoke.
“No.”
My mouth went dry.
“Who was he?”
Ethan stared at the floor.
May you like
Then he said the one name I never expected.
“My brother.”
