There was, in the original records, no flaw in me at all.
Every viable embryo had failed for one documented, unambiguous reason: the sperm samples showed severe abnormalities.
The original specialist — the one from the first year, before Weston quietly steered us to a different clinic — had noted it clearly and recommended we consider donor sperm.
I remember the room going very still.
I remember Xavier’s voice, careful and even, and the way he paused to let me catch up, because he could see what the information was doing to me.
For four years I had carried a sentence about myself that had been, medically, a lie.
My body had done nothing wrong.
It had never done anything wrong.
“Someone altered the summary pages,” Xavier said.
“This isn’t a clerical error.