I stood.
Grace stirred against me.
Ivanna stood too.
“Sit down,” I snapped.
She did.
I walked toward the window.
My legs felt weak.
For nine months, I had believed Grace began with the last piece of my younger self.
I had imagined that 33-year-old woman reaching across 42 years to give me this child.
Now a stranger was sitting in my living room telling me that might not be true.
“Did you know they still had one of your eggs?”
Ivanna nodded.
“I knew one remained.”
“Why didn’t you use it?”
Her expression changed.
That question hurt her.
“I tried.”
I turned.
She clasped her hands together.
“My husband and I spent years trying to have a child. We used several embryos. None survived.”
Her voice became quieter.
“Then he died.”
I said nothing.
“Car accident,” she added. “Two years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“After that, I couldn’t go back to the clinic.”
Her eyes dropped to the floor.
“I kept paying the storage bills because destroying the last egg felt like closing a door I wasn’t ready to close.”
That sentence struck somewhere deep.
I understood it too well.
Ivanna looked toward me.
“Yesterday, when they called, they told me that there might have been a mix-up. They said they needed DNA testing.”
“And then they gave you my address?”
“No.”
I frowned.
“Then how did you find me?”
“They gave me your full name by mistake during the call.”
She looked embarrassed.
“I searched public records. I know I shouldn’t have.”
“You absolutely shouldn’t have.”
“I know.”
Her voice cracked.
“I wasn’t coming here to take her.”
I stared at her.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You were thinking it.”
I was.
Ivanna pressed both palms against her knees.
“I only wanted to see if there really was a baby.”
She swallowed.
“Then you opened the door holding her.”
I looked down at Grace.
She had curled one tiny fist against my shirt.
Something fierce rose inside me.
“If the test says she’s biologically yours, what happens?”
Ivanna’s face went pale.
“I don’t know.”
“Would you want custody?”
She did not answer immediately.
That frightened me more than anything.
“I asked you a question.”
“I know.”
Her eyes met mine.
“I’ve wanted a child for most of my adult life.”
My throat tightened.
“So have I.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Her face crumpled.
“You’re right. I don’t know your life.”
I sat again.
Neither of us spoke.
Two women.
Two frozen eggs.
Two lives built around waiting.
And one sleeping baby between us.
“I’ve had three days with her,” I said softly.
Ivanna looked at Grace.
“I’ve had none.”
That hurt.
I hated that it hurt.
I wanted Ivanna to be selfish.
I wanted her to say something cruel, so I could dislike her.
Instead, she looked devastated.
