I drove home in total silence. I did not turn on the radio. When I got to my house, I went straight to the attic. I pulled down the blue ledger. The receipt was still there, the purple ink faded but readable. Donor #7714.

On Monday morning, I called Midwest Fertility. A young woman with a pleasant, professional voice answered. I explained that I was a client from 1996 and needed to verify some medical information for my son.

“I am sorry, ma’am,” she said. “We cannot disclose any donor details without a legal request. Those records are strictly confidential.”

I did not argue. I hung up the phone and called Arthur Vance, a local family lawyer who had handled my husband’s estate. I sat in his office on Tuesday morning. The room smelled of old paper and carpet cleaner.

“I need a court order, Arthur,” I said. I was squeezing my purse so tightly my fingers ached. “I need to know if Donor #7714 is the same man who fathered my son’s fiancée.”

Arthur looked at me through his glasses. He did not ask questions. He just sighed and opened a folder. It cost me $2,200 of my savings. It took three weeks of pure agony. Three weeks of watching Leo and Maya discuss flower arrangements and registry items. Every time they kissed, I felt sick to my stomach.

Yesterday, the certified envelope arrived from Arthur’s office. I sat on my kitchen floor to open it. My hands were shaking so badly I ripped the page.

There it was. Maya’s legal file from her parents’ adoption record had been compared to mine. Her donor was #7714. Leo’s donor was #7714.

They are biological half-siblings.

My chest turned cold. I sat on the floor for an hour, just staring at the microwave clock.

The wedding was in six weeks. The invitations had been mailed. The registry was full.

But there was another page in the envelope. Under a recent Indiana law regarding donor disclosure, the court had ordered the clinic to release the donor’s current identity. He had signed a waiver five years ago allowing his name to be shared if a child reached adulthood and requested it.

His name is David Miller.

He is sixty-four years old. He lives on Oak Street, right here in Kokomo. I know him. He owns the small hardware store where Mark used to buy his lawnmower parts. He is a quiet man who always wears a gray cap and has a slight limp.

I had to tell them. I could not let them walk down that aisle.

I called Evelyn and Paul last night. I told them they needed to bring Maya to my house immediately. I called Leo and told him to come home from work early. They all arrived around seven. They thought we were going to discuss the rehearsal dinner.

I had set five glasses of water on the kitchen table. Nobody touched them.