He edited reality.

For three years, I had believed a thing about myself so fundamental that it had reshaped my entire sense of who I was: that my body had failed, that I was the reason for the empty nursery, that some deep biological verdict had been handed down against me.

I had grieved a version of myself that did not exist.

I had accepted a limitation that had been fabricated.

He had reached into the most intimate account of what I was, and forged an entry, and then handed me the forgery and let me mourn it.

When Dr.