Every injection.

Every surgery.

Every time his mother had counted my failures on her fingers and he had said nothing.

Every time I had lain awake hating my own body for betraying the man who loved me.

All of it, built on a single page he had hidden, that said the problem had never been mine at all.

“Your husband had the original buried through a clinic administrator,” Cormac said, and something cold and steady settled over his face like weather coming in.