“Yours,” she said.
“In every way that matters.”
“Whose?”
“A donor’s!” The word tore out of her, high and cracked.
“The clinic told me your sample couldn’t work — I knew, I’ve known since before we were married — and I knew you’d leave me the way you left her if I didn’t give you a child.
So I gave you one.
I did what I had to do.”
His face collapsed inward.
For years Weston had held fatherhood over my head like a blade — his son, his proof, the child my useless body couldn’t produce.
And now he stood in a public corridor learning that the one true thing in his glittering new life, the boy he’d paraded past me thirty seconds ago, had been built on the same kind of lie he’d built about me.