“No more,” I whispered.

I got up, tears drying into tight tracks, and opened the bottom drawer of my nightstand. Under a stack of old journals sat the manila envelope, edges fraying, paper yellowed.

The clinical assessment of Michael’s fertility. The verdict was absolute: his count and motility were so low that natural conception was a statistical impossibility.

I stared at the black ink. I had hidden this like a shameful secret. Now it was my shield.

My phone buzzed. Him. I let it ring three times before answering.

“Sarah. Have you cooled off?” His tone was insufferably magnanimous, a king granting a pardon.