I told Adrian the same excuse—that I’d forgotten my vitamins. Luck was on my side. His online meeting kept him occupied, so I was able to drive alone. He didn’t suspect a thing. The clinic was dark except for one consultation room in the back, where Dr. Shah waited in plain clothes, a thick paper file on the table. She no longer looked like a doctor but like a woman who had rehearsed this conversation and still dreaded every word. “I’m not trying to scare you,” she said as soon as I sat down. “I’m trying to stop you from walking deeper into something you don’t understand.”
She slid an old ultrasound print across the table. “This was taken seven years ago.” At first, I only noticed the blur of a tiny baby hand. Then she placed my new scan next to it and pointed to the same unusual curve in the little finger. “It’s rare, inherited, and harmless on its own,” she said. “I’ve only seen it twice.” I looked up at her. “Once today,” I said quietly. She nodded. “And once before, when I consulted on another doctor’s case. The father at that appointment used a different name, but it was your husband.” I actually laughed—the sentence was too absurd to be real. Adrian sometimes lied about small things—where he’d been, who’d called—but not this. Not a whole other identity.
