All of it, every ounce of sacrifice, had just been thrown into a fire.

A soft, breathy laugh escaped me. It sounded hollow. My chest ached like my ribs might crack.

Michael stepped forward at last, eyes darting. “Sarah, since it’s out now, just — breathe. Be reasonable. I just wanted a child. Is that a crime?”

My fingers crushed the pastry boxes until the seams split. My sympathy had fertilized the soil of his betrayal. The man I’d loved so fiercely — the man I’d worn the scarlet letter of infertility for — was using my self-inflicted wound as the knife.

And as I stared at the pregnant belly his whole bloodline was worshipping, a buried memory surfaced. Under a false bottom in my bedside drawer sat a manila envelope.

Inside was a weathered report from a top urologist.