I waited until morning to call Carter.
Not because I wanted to give him rest.
Because Chloe woke at six.
She stood in Rachel's kitchen wearing borrowed pajama pants and asked whether we had cereal.
For twenty minutes, I was simply her mother.
I poured milk.
Cut a banana.
Found a spoon.
Emma appeared next, hair tangled around her face, carrying the stuffed rabbit by one ear.
They argued about who got the blue bowl.
I settled it by giving neither of them the blue bowl.
Normal parenting.
Ordinary frustration.
Nothing involving embryos, trusts, genetic testing, or men who believed daughters were less useful than sons.
Rachel watched me across the counter.
She knew I needed those twenty minutes.
At 6:43, Chloe asked, “Is Dad coming to Seattle?”
I stopped washing a plate.
“No.”
“Ever?”
“I don't know.”
She stared down at her cereal.
“He called a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Was he calling for us?”
The question was small.
The answer was not.
“He was calling because something important happened.”
“Oh.”
She pushed a cereal square through the milk.
“Did he ask about me?”
My throat tightened.
“He asked if you and Emma were with me.”
That was technically true.
Chloe looked up.
“That's not what I asked.”
Eight years old.
Too smart.
Too practiced at measuring adults.
I dried my hands and sat beside her.
“Your dad is dealing with something complicated right now.”
“You always say complicated when grown-ups did something bad.”
Rachel looked away.
I almost smiled despite myself.
“You're not wrong.”
“Did he do something bad?”
“Yes.”
She absorbed that.
“Because of Jessica?”
“Partly.”
“And the baby?”
“Partly.”
Her expression changed.
“Does Dad want the baby more than us?”
There it was.
The question Carter had created in a courthouse hallway.
I turned my chair toward her.
“Your father's choices are about him. They are not a measurement of your value.”
“That's not an answer either.”
No.
It wasn't.
I hated that truth required hurting her.
“He has behaved as though having a son matters to him in a way that it should not.”
Chloe's eyes filled immediately, but she did not cry.
“Because we're girls.”
“Yes.”
Emma looked between us.
“I'm a girl.”
“You are.”
“Is that bad?”
I reached for her.
“No. Never.”
She climbed into my lap.
Chloe stared at the table.
“Grandpa Richard says the family needs a boy.”
I felt my body tense.
“When did he say that?”
“Lots of times.”
Rachel froze.
“Lots?”
Chloe nodded.
“At dinners.”
I thought back over years of Sterling gatherings.
Conversations held above children's heads.
Jokes.
Comments.
Things adults assumed little ears would not absorb.
“What else did Grandpa say?”
“That Dad has to continue the family.”
My hands went cold.
“You and Emma are family.”
“I know.”
“Did anyone tell you you weren't?”
“No.”
She hesitated.
“Grandpa said girls carry different names when they grow up.”
There it was.
The philosophy underneath everything.
Blood mattered only when carried through men.
I hugged both girls.
After breakfast, Rachel took them to walk her dog.
I called Carter.
He answered immediately.
“Is Jessica okay?”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“I'm not telling you.”
“I need to know.”
“No, you want to know.”
He exhaled.
“Fine.”
“I have a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“What happened after Emma was born?”
Silence.
Not confusion.
Recognition.
“That could mean anything.”
“It means your father and genetic testing.”
He said nothing.
“Carter.”
“I wondered when you'd find that.”
The words hit hard.
“You knew.”
“Some of it.”
“What did Richard test?”
“I don't know exactly.”
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Giving me fragments and hoping I'll mistake them for truth.”
He sighed.
“My father became convinced Emma might not be mine.”
For several seconds, I forgot to breathe.
“What?”
“He thought the timing was wrong.”
“What timing?”
“Our marriage was bad that year.”
“Our marriage was exhausted that year. We had a toddler.”
“He knew we were fighting.”
“So?”
“He knew you stayed with Rachel for two weeks.”
I stood.
“I stayed with my sister because your mother told me I was failing you by not getting pregnant again.”
“I know.”
“And Richard turned that into an affair?”
“I didn't.”
“Did you defend me?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“I told him he was wrong.”
“Then why were there tests?”
“I didn't know about them until later.”
I paced toward the window.
“Did he test Emma?”
“No.”
“You're sure?”
“As far as I know, no.”
“As far as you know isn't good enough.”
“He didn't have access.”
“He had access to our embryos.”
That silenced him.
“What did he test?” I repeated.
“The stored embryos.”
“Why would that prove anything about Emma?”
“It wouldn't.”
“Then explain.”
Carter breathed slowly.
“He wanted to verify that the embryos stored under our account were genetically mine.”
I stopped.
“He thought the clinic had mixed them up?”
“At first.”
“At first?”
“He had some idea that if Emma wasn't mine, maybe there had been an embryo mistake.”
My head began to ache.
“Emma was conceived through IVF.”
“Yes.”
“So he doubted the clinic.”
“He doubted everything.”
“Why?”
Carter paused.
“Because of my grandfather.”
Another Sterling man.
Of course.
“What about him?”
“My grandfather had a child outside his marriage.”
I waited.
“A son?”
“Yes.”
“Richard?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“Then who?”
“A half brother my father didn't know existed until he was in his twenties.”
I sat slowly.
“What happened?”
“There was a fight over the company.”
“Because of inheritance.”
“Yes.”
“And Richard became obsessed with proving lineage.”
“Yes.”
The family history finally began to explain his behavior.
Not excuse it.
Explain it.
“After Emma was born, he demanded DNA testing.”
“I refused.”
“You refused.”
“Yes.”
“You want credit?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“He couldn't test Emma without us knowing. So he went after the embryos.”
“How?”
“I don't know.”
“You knew the results?”
“Yes.”
“What were they?”
“The embryos were genetically mine.”
“And mine?”
He hesitated.
“Carter.”
“Yes.”
“What does yes mean?”
“They were genetically ours.”
Both of us.
So Richard had proven what should never have needed proving.
“Then why did the testing continue?”
Silence.
My heart sped up.
“It continued?”
“I don't know.”
“Dana found multiple charges.”
“I only knew about one test.”
“What did it show?”
“That the remaining embryos were ours.”
“Male and female?”
“Yes.”
“Then why preserve only the male embryo?”
“He preserved both.”
I froze.
“What?”
“At least initially.”
“Carter.”
“I thought you knew there were two stored.”
“I knew there had been two before you gave me the destruction letter.”
“I mean after.”
“No.”
“Dad paid storage on both.”
I grabbed the nearest document.
The records I had showed storage references.
But I had assumed the coded payments all referred to the male embryo because that was the embryo later transferred.
“What happened to the female embryo?”
“I don't know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I don't.”
“Was it destroyed?”
“I assumed so.”
“You assumed?”
“Years later, Dad told me there was only one embryo left.”
“When?”
“About two years ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where did the other one go?”
“I never asked.”
“Why?”
“Because it was female.”
The words came out before he could stop them.
Silence.
Absolute.
Then Carter whispered, “Lauren.”
I stared at nothing.
“Because it was female,” I repeated.
“I didn't mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
“I meant my father didn't care about it.”
“And neither did you.”
“That isn't what I'm saying.”
“You never asked what happened to an embryo we created because it couldn't become the son your family wanted.”
He had no answer.
I closed my eyes.
Some betrayals were loud.
Others were omissions.
A missing question.
A vanished embryo.
Years of never asking.
“Carter, where is she?”
“What?”
“The female embryo.”
“I don't know.”
“Find out.”
“I don't have access.”
“Use the same energy you used to steal the male one.”
“That isn't fair.”
I laughed, genuinely this time.
The sound was ugly.
“Stop saying that word.”
He was quiet.
Then he said, “There's something else.”
My skin tightened.
“What?”
“When Dad did the testing, he didn't only compare the embryos to me.”
I gripped the phone.
“Who else?”
“My father.”
“Why?”
“He wanted lineage confirmation.”
“What does that mean?”
“He wanted to establish they were part of the Sterling line.”
“Testing you already establishes that.”
“I know.”
“Then why test Richard too?”
“He was paranoid.”
“No. There is something you're not telling me.”
Carter exhaled.
“The results showed the expected relationship.”
“Meaning?”
“The embryos were genetically my children and his grandchildren.”
“Fine.”
“But the lab flagged something else.”
My heartbeat slowed strangely.
“What?”
“I didn't understand it then.”
“Understand what?”
“They said there was a hereditary marker.”
“For disease?”
“Possibly.”
“What disease?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know?”
“Dad took over everything after that.”
I thought of Dr. Leonard Vale.
Hereditary disease and kinship analysis.
“What marker?”
“I never saw the report.”
“Did Richard?”
“Yes.”
“Did it concern Emma or Chloe?”
“I asked him.”
“And?”
“He said no.”
“You believed him?”
“I wanted to.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was again.
Carter's great moral failure was not always active cruelty.
Sometimes it was convenience.
Believing whatever allowed his comfortable life to continue.
“What happened to the female embryo after the testing?”
“I told you, I don't know.”
“Did Richard ever mention it again?”
A pause.
“Once.”
“When?”
“About three years ago.”
“What did he say?”
“He said one embryo had been ‘removed from consideration.’”
The phrase made my stomach turn.
“Removed how?”
“I didn't ask.”
“Of course you didn't.”
“Lauren—”
I ended the call.
Dana picked up ten minutes later.
I told her everything.
She remained silent until I finished.
“The female embryo matters,” she said.
“Yes.”
“We'll request the complete disposition history.”
“And the genetic report.”
“Yes.”
“What hereditary marker?”
“We'll find out.”
I paced Rachel's living room.
“What if they destroyed the female embryo?”
“Then there should be documentation.”
“And if there isn't?”
“Then we keep looking.”
At 9:17, Dana called again.
That was too fast.
“What happened?”
“Oakfield found the disposition entry.”
My heart pounded.
“For the female embryo?”
“Yes.”
“Destroyed?”
“No.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“It was transferred out of Oakfield.”
My mouth went dry.
“To another clinic?”
“We don't know yet.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
Exactly when Richard had told Carter the embryo was “removed from consideration.”
“Who authorized it?”
Dana paused.
“Richard Sterling.”
I stared at the wall.
“He had no legal authority.”
“I know.”
“Recipient?”
“Unknown.”
“Destination?”
“Redacted in the archive.”
“Why?”
“We're working on it.”
I closed my eyes.
One embryo had been used to create Jessica's pregnancy.
The other had disappeared three years earlier.
And the man who had secretly controlled both transfers had spent years talking about heirs as if human beings were pieces on a board.
“Dana.”
“Yes?”
“Find the female embryo.”
“We will.”
I looked toward the window where Rachel and my daughters were coming up the sidewalk.
Chloe held the dog's leash.
Emma jumped over every crack in the pavement.
Two living daughters.
One unborn son.
And somewhere in the past, possibly another child.
I suddenly understood why Richard had panicked when Jessica mentioned the old records.
The scandal might not have begun with her pregnancy.
It might have begun years earlier.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Missing Female Embryo Led to a Birth Record in Another State, and One Date Made Lauren Realize the Secret Child Was Already Three
Five Minutes After the Judge Ended Our Marriage, Carter Told Me Exactly What Our Daughters Were Worth to Him
Part 7 of 35
