Just in case.

Maybe some part of me already knew.

Week four was when everything exploded.

I got off work early because another doctor covered my afternoon appointments.

I remember feeling strangely hopeful driving home.

Quiet house.

Maybe a nap.

Maybe thirty peaceful minutes before chaos started again.

I unlocked the front door and immediately heard drawers opening upstairs.

I frowned.

“Linda?”

No answer.

I climbed the stairs.

My bedroom door was half open.

And there she was.

Sitting on my bed.

Surrounded by papers.

My medical papers.

My private file folder lay open beside her.

Insurance documents.

Lab results.

Prescription information.

Fertility evaluations.

Everything.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed.

Linda looked up, startled for exactly one second before her face hardened.

“You lied to my son.”

I felt cold instantly.

Ice cold.

“What are you talking about?”

She held up a paper with shaking hands.

A fertility report.

One I hadn’t even fully processed myself yet.

Months earlier, after trying unsuccessfully for another baby, my doctor had quietly suggested I might have secondary infertility.

Nothing certain.

Nothing final.

Just testing.

Just possibilities.

Private possibilities.

“You can’t give him another child,” Linda hissed.

My stomach dropped.

“This is none of your business.”

“It’s absolutely my business!”

“No, it isn’t!”

She stood so abruptly the papers scattered across the floor.

“My son deserves a real family!”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“A real family?”

Before I could speak again, she grabbed her phone and dialed Daniel.

And then she said five words that changed everything.

“She can’t have more children.”

Silence.

Then louder:

“She hid this from you.”

I couldn’t hear Daniel’s response.

But I’ll never forget Linda’s expression changing.

Slowly.

Triumphantly.

Like she’d finally uncovered proof that I was defective.

I snatched the phone from her hand and hung up.

Then I pointed toward the door.

“Get out of my room.”