“I never had a miscarriage, Preston,” I said, my voice trembling now not with fear but with a lethal clarity.

“I had a hard, healthy pregnancy. But I was locked out of my own life.

And out of yours.”

“I saw the documents,” he insisted, coming around the table, drawn toward us like a man sleepwalking to the edge of a cliff.

Dr. Evans signed them himself.

The files said you lost the baby at twelve weeks.