I almost stopped there.

I almost closed the safe, because some part of me understood that whatever was underneath would cost me something I couldn’t get back.

I opened it anyway.

Beneath the deed was a folder of medical records, and they were not his.

They were mine — or they were about me, which is not the same thing as being mine, because I had never seen them.

For two years, Desmond and I had gone to fertility clinics together.