Chapter 4: Let the Next One Fail
I read it three times.
The words didn't change.
*Let the next one fail.*
Brandon set the phone face-down on the bed.
Neither of us spoke.
Noah made a small sound, and I adjusted him automatically, my hands moving without me telling them to.
"She wrote that," I said finally.
"To the consultant."
"Yes."
"She paid someone.
And then she told him to make sure the second round didn't work."
"Grace says the wording is ambiguous enough that the consultant could argue he took no action.
But the instruction exists.
In writing.
In her name."
I thought about the second round.
The way Kimberly had driven me to the clinic that morning because Brandon had an early meeting she'd encouraged him to take.
The way she'd sat with me in the waiting room, squeezing my hand.
The way she'd wept on the phone when I told her the result.
"She was there," I said.
"She drove me."
Brandon didn't answer.
"She sat next to me, Brandon.
She held my hand."
"I know."
"What did she think was going to happen?
That if we stopped trying, you'd—" I stopped.
I already knew the answer.
"She thought you'd leave.
She thought if we couldn't have children, eventually you'd leave."
He was very still.
"And then Noah happened anyway," I said.
"And he wasn't what she wanted either."
The door was closed.
The corridor outside was quiet.
Somewhere down the hall, a different baby was crying, and a different family was beginning their own version of this.
"What do we do with it?" I said.
"Grace wants to move quickly.
She says the longer we wait, the more time my mother has to—" He stopped.
"She's already called twice this morning.
If she finds out I have the report—"
"She'll try to get ahead of it."
"Yes."
I looked at Noah.
He was awake now, his dark eyes unfocused, his fist opening and closing against my shirt.
"I want her out of this room," I said.
"I want her out of this hospital and I want her to know that I know.
Not through a lawyer.
Not through a letter." I looked at Brandon.
"I want to tell her myself."
"Olivia—"
"I'm not asking for permission."
He held my gaze for a moment.
Then he nodded once.
"I'll call her," he said.
"I'll tell her to come."
He picked up the phone.
I watched him dial.
He waited, and when she answered, his voice was calm and even, giving nothing away.
"Mom.
Can you come to the hospital this afternoon?
There's something we need to talk about as a family."
A pause.
Her voice through the phone, warm and immediate: "Of course, sweetheart.
Of course.
I'll be there by two."
He ended the call and set the phone down.
We had four hours.
"I need you to do something," I said.
"Before she gets here."
"What?"
"Call my sister.
Tell her to come too."
Brandon looked at me carefully.
"Why?"
"Because Kimberly has spent five years making sure I was alone in every room that mattered." I looked down at Noah.
"Not this time."
Brandon picked up the phone again without another word.
My sister, Diane, answered on the second ring.
I could hear the relief in her voice just from Brandon saying her name.
He told her to come as soon as she could.
He didn't tell her why.
When he hung up, he looked at me with something I hadn't seen clearly in four days.
Not guilt.
Not conflict.
Resolve.
"Grace is sending the full document to my email," he said.
"I'll have it printed before two."
"Good."
"And if she tries to deny it?"
I thought about Kimberly's voice on that voicemail.
Bright.
Composed.
*I just want to make sure we're on the same page.*
May you like
"Let her," I said.
"It's in her own words."
