Patricia Wynn lived in a small brick house at the end of a quiet road bordered by pine trees.
Michael drove.
Jake insisted on coming.
I did not argue.
After what he had heard, excluding him would have repeated the same mistake everyone else had made.
The rain stopped halfway there. Weak sunlight broke through the clouds, turning the wet highway silver.
For most of the drive, nobody spoke.
Then Jake asked from the back seat, “Did Grandma know Dad might not be my biological father the whole time?”
“Yes,” I said.
Michael answered at the same moment.
“Probably.”
Jake stared out the window.
“And Grandpa?”
“I think so.”
“Everyone except you two.”
Michael gripped the steering wheel.
“Yes.”
Jake gave a quiet laugh without humor.
“That’s impressive.”
I turned toward him.
“You can be angry.”
“I am.”
“With us?”
“With everyone.”
“That includes us.”
“Yes.”
Fair enough.
Patricia opened the door before we knocked.
She was small and thin, with white hair cut just below her ears. Her eyes moved first to me, then Michael, then Jake.
When she saw Jake, she gripped the doorframe.
“Oh my God.”
Jake stiffened.
“What?”
Patricia did not answer immediately.
She studied his face with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.
Finally she stepped aside.
“Come in.”
Her living room smelled of old books and lemon furniture polish. Medical journals filled two shelves. A framed photograph of a younger Patricia standing beside laboratory equipment rested on a side table.
She did not offer coffee.
She sat opposite us and placed a black notebook on her lap.
“You look like Thomas,” she told Jake.
No one moved.
Jake swallowed.
“So he was the donor.”
Patricia looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“Yes.”
The word entered the room quietly.
Thomas Lawson was Jake’s biological father.
My uncle.
My father’s brother.
Jake stared at the floor.
Michael looked toward the window.
I felt strangely detached.
Perhaps there are discoveries too large for immediate emotion.
The mind simply places them on a shelf marked later.
“Why?” I asked.
Patricia folded her hands over the notebook.
“Your treatment had failed repeatedly.”
“I know.”
“Michael’s sperm count was extremely low.”
Michael nodded.
“Vale told me.”
“He told you less than half.”
Michael’s jaw tightened.
Patricia continued.
“The final sample you provided had almost no motile sperm.”
“Then why didn’t they cancel?”
“Because Margaret refused.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“Could my mother decide that?”
“Legally? No.”
“But practically?”
“Margaret had influence. Your father had funded the program. Vale owed him favors.”
“What did Thomas have to do with it?”
“Margaret contacted him.”
“Without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling Michael.”
Patricia looked at him.
“Vale believed you had been told enough to give general authorization.”
Michael’s voice hardened.
“I was told the backup sample was mine.”
Patricia nodded.
“I know.”
“You knew he lied to me?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I was a technician.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
She looked at Michael steadily.
“I was afraid of losing my career.”
He looked away.
Patricia opened the notebook.
“Thomas did not initially agree.”
“Why would he agree at all?” I asked.
“Because your father asked him.”
I stared at her.
“They were estranged.”
“Yes.”
“Then why help?”
“Guilt.”
“For what?”
Patricia shook her head.
“That part isn’t mine to tell.”
“Whose is it?”
“Thomas’s.”
“Is he alive?”
She hesitated.
“I don’t know.”
Jake leaned forward.
“You knew him?”
“Briefly.”
“What was he like?”
Patricia considered.
“Quiet. Intelligent. Uncomfortable with what was happening.”
“Did he know the recipient was his niece?”
“Yes.”
Jake’s expression hardened.
“And he still donated?”
“He believed it would be ordinary insemination.”
“What does that mean?”
Patricia’s fingers tightened around the notebook.
“This is where E7 matters.”
She opened to a page marked with a paper tab.
My treatment number appeared in faded blue ink.
Beside it:
E7 – Lawson source – conversion approved.
“What is conversion?” I asked.
Patricia looked at me.
“Your cycle was converted from planned intrauterine insemination to an experimental assisted-fertilization procedure.”
“What kind?”
“An early form of laboratory-assisted fertilization and transfer.”
“IVF?”
“Related to it.”
My mouth went dry.
“I would remember IVF.”
“You should.”
“But I don’t.”
“You were told you were receiving treatment for ovarian complications.”
A memory surfaced.
Vale telling me one follicle had developed incorrectly.
My mother driving me to the clinic.
Sedation.
Pain afterward.
I stared at Patricia.
“They retrieved my eggs.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling me that was what they were doing?”
“You signed a procedure consent.”
“I signed something for treatment.”
“The language was intentionally broad.”
Michael muttered, “Jesus.”
Patricia continued.
“Several eggs were retrieved.”
“How many?”
“Seven.”
“What happened to them?”
“Five were fertilized.”
“With Thomas’s sperm.”
“Yes.”
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
Jake sat motionless.
“What happened to the embryos?”
“Two failed early.”
“And three?”
Patricia looked at the notebook.
“One was transferred.”
“Jake.”
“Yes.”
“And the other two?”
Her silence changed the room.
I leaned forward.
“What happened to the other two?”
“They were cryopreserved.”
My heartbeat became painfully loud.
“Frozen?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were they destroyed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were they used?”
“I don’t know.”
Jake stared at her.
“How can you not know?”
“Because that is where the records were altered.”
Patricia turned several pages.
“Two years after your pregnancy, both embryos disappeared from the storage ledger.”
“Disappeared?”
“Their identifiers were reassigned.”
“To whom?”
“I never found out.”
I stood.
The room felt too small.
“You’re telling me someone may have used embryos created from my eggs without my consent.”
“I’m telling you the records stopped making sense.”
“Did Vale do it?”
“I believe he authorized the changes.”
“Did my mother know?”
Patricia looked down.
“Yes.”
The word hit harder than I expected.
I walked to the window.
Outside, wind moved through the pines.
My mother had arranged the donor.
Concealed the retrieval.
Ordered kinship testing.
And later knew something had happened to the remaining embryos.
“What did the prenatal kinship test prove?”
Patricia answered behind me.
“That Thomas was the biological father.”
“Why test if they already knew?”
“Margaret demanded certainty.”
I turned.
“Of course she did.”
“She also wanted confirmation that the embryo transferred to you was the Lawson embryo.”
“What does that mean?”
Patricia looked uncomfortable.
“There were other patients undergoing procedures that day.”
My skin prickled.
“Were samples mixed up?”
“Not according to the final test.”
“But there was a concern.”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“Vale discovered a labeling discrepancy.”
Michael leaned forward.
“How serious?”
“Serious enough that the clinic should have notified every affected patient.”
“Did they?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the tests suggested the pregnancies matched the intended genetic sources.”
“Pregnancies?”
I caught the plural.
Patricia stopped.
“How many women became pregnant?”
She closed the notebook.
“Three.”
I stared at her.
“Using material processed during the same cycle?”
“Yes.”
“Were my embryos involved?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said identifiers were reassigned.”
“Later.”
“How much later?”
“Twenty-two months.”
Jake spoke.
“Could one of Mom’s embryos have been transferred to someone else?”
Patricia looked at him.
“Yes.”
My knees weakened.
Michael stood beside me, not touching me.
For the first time, I wished he would.
I hated that I wished it.
“Why did Harris become involved?”
Patricia answered more readily.
“Daniel discovered the irregularities during an internal audit.”
“When?”
“After Jake’s birth.”
“He wanted to report Vale?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“He tried.”
“What happened?”
“Your father intervened.”
I stared at her.
“My father?”
“He believed disclosure would destroy your family and the clinic.”
“Which mattered more to him?”
Patricia’s silence answered.
Michael asked, “Was the ethics investigation connected?”
“Yes.”
“And it went nowhere.”
“Correct.”
I thought of the newspaper article.
No patients harmed.
A public statement built over buried evidence.
“Why did Harris stay?”
“To monitor the consequences.”
“What consequences?”
Patricia opened the notebook again.
“He was particularly concerned about consanguinity.”
Jake frowned.
“What?”
I already understood.
“Related biological parents.”
Patricia nodded.
“Thomas was your mother’s uncle.”
Jake’s face tightened.
“That increases genetic risks.”
“Potentially. The degree matters. It does not guarantee illness.”
“That’s why Grandma told me to get screened.”
“Yes.”
“Why wait until I was grown?”
“Because she refused disclosure while you were a child.”
I sat again.
“What happened in 2008?”
Patricia’s expression became grave.
“I only know what Daniel told me.”
“Tell me.”
“He was contacted by Margaret after your overdose.”
“Why?”
“Because the hospital found abnormalities while treating you.”
“What abnormalities?”
“Scarring and a lesion near the old retrieval site.”
I touched my abdomen.
“Was it dangerous?”
“Daniel believed another pregnancy could increase the risk of severe bleeding.”
“So sterilization was medically reasonable.”
“Possibly.”
The answer mattered.
I did not want a false villain where medicine had genuinely been necessary.
“But?”
Patricia looked at me.
“But you were stable enough that permanent decisions should have waited for your informed consent.”
Michael shut his eyes.
I asked, “Did Harris know my signature was forged?”
“Later.”
“Who forged it?”
Patricia shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“Did my mother?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Vale?”
“Vale was not physically at St. Matthew’s that night.”
That removed one possibility.
“Why was genetic testing ordered?”
“Daniel wanted to compare your tissue, Jake’s sample, and archived clinic material.”
“To prove what?”
Patricia looked toward Jake.
“That the records had not been altered in a way that concealed another genetic source.”
Jake leaned forward.
“Another genetic source?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
“That was what he was trying to determine.”
My mind returned to the missing page.
“What did Margaret do?”
“She stopped the test.”
“Why?”
“I asked Daniel that.”
“And?”
“He said she told him the truth would destroy more than one family.”
The sentence hung heavily.
More than one family.
I thought of the two missing embryos.
“Were there other children?”
Patricia looked away.
“Mrs. Wynn.”
She opened the notebook to another page.
Two numbers were written beneath my treatment code.
E7-A.
E7-B.
Both had dates beside them.
Dates nearly two years after Jake’s birth.
“What are those?”
“I believe they were the reassigned embryo identifiers.”
“Where did they go?”
“One was marked transferred.”
My heart stopped.
“To whom?”
“The recipient name was removed.”
“And the second?”
“Released.”
“What does released mean?”
“Transferred out of storage.”
“To another clinic?”
“Possibly.”
“Do you know which?”
“No.”
Jake whispered, “So I could have biological siblings.”
Patricia looked at him.
“Yes.”
I thought the worst discovery had already arrived.
Then Patricia turned one more page.
“There’s something else.”
I almost laughed from exhaustion.
“Of course there is.”
She pointed to a handwritten notation beside E7-A.
Successful pregnancy reported.
The room became silent.
Jake stared at the words.
Michael lowered himself into his chair.
I could barely speak.
“There was another child.”
Patricia corrected me gently.
“There was at least one other successful pregnancy.”
“Using my embryo.”
“If the notebook is accurate.”
“Meaning my egg and Thomas’s sperm.”
“Yes.”
My son looked at me.
Somewhere, perhaps only a few hours away, there might be another person conceived from the same hidden arrangement.
Not merely Jake’s half-sibling.
Genetically, potentially his full sibling.
And biologically, another child created from my body without my knowledge.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: One Missing Embryo Had Become a Child, and the Date in Patricia’s Notebook Led Us Back to the Hospital My Father Controlled
For Eighteen Years My Husband Slept Ten Feet Away, Until One Ordinary Appointment Made Our Silence Feel Suddenly Dangerous
Part 10 of 35
