“Can creditors take it?”
“Some claims may reach portions of it.
But not all.”
I stared at Nick’s signature.
Even dead, he remained impossible.
Cruel and remorseful.
Weak and occasionally brave.
Faithless and somehow still desperate to protect me.
Human beings would be easier to grieve if they stayed one thing.
A year passed.
Then another.
Todd and Megan divorced.
It was ugly at first.
Then surprisingly civilized.
Todd remained Knox’s legal father.
He took him every other weekend and Wednesday nights.
Megan found a job managing an event venue.
She stopped pretending money appeared by magic.
Our relationship did not return to what it had been.
It became something stranger.
More honest.
Sometimes months passed when we spoke only about Knox.
Sometimes we drank coffee while he played and almost felt like sisters again.
Then one of us would remember.
There was no going back.
Only forward.
Knox began calling me Aunt Angie.
I never corrected him.
Biology did not entitle me to rewrite his world.
But he spent more time at my house.
He had a drawer in my guest room.
Then a toy box.
Then a bicycle in my garage.
On his third birthday, he fell asleep on my couch holding a plastic dinosaur.
I sat beside him long after everyone left.
His eyelashes rested against his cheeks.
For a moment I imagined an alternate life.
Nick beside me.
This child ours openly.
No lies.
No theft.
No funerals.
But imaginary lives are dangerous.
You can live inside them until reality feels like punishment.
So I carried Knox upstairs, tucked a blanket around him, and whispered, “You are loved.”
That was enough.
Or I thought it was.
Until the fertility clinic called.
Three years after Nick’s death.
“Mrs.
Dorsey, we need to discuss your remaining embryos.”
My heart stopped.
“What happened?”
“There has been an audit discrepancy.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“No.”
“They are physically accounted for.”
I gripped the counter.
“All three?”
“Yes.”
“Then what discrepancy?”
The administrator hesitated.
“Genetic records.”
I drove there the same afternoon.
Daria came with me.
The clinic director was new.
She placed three sealed genetic reports on the table.
After the scandal, every stored embryo had been independently re-cataloged.
Recent improvements allowed them to verify genetic-parent profiles from original lab records without thawing or damaging the embryos.
Two matched Nick and me.
The third did not.
I stared at her.
“What?”
“The third embryo is genetically yours.”
“And Nick’s?”
“No.”
The world went silent again.
Daria leaned forward.
“Whose paternal material was used?”
The director swallowed.
“We don’t know.”
I felt sick.
“That’s impossible.”
“We are investigating.”
“Was there a lab mix-up?”
“Possibly.”
Daria’s expression sharpened.
“Possibly?”
The director pushed a folder toward us.
“The embryo was created during Angela’s IVF cycle.
The egg is hers.
But the sperm sample was not Nicholas Dorsey’s.”
My hands began shaking.
For years, I thought I had reached the bottom of Nick’s secrets.
I had not.
Daria ordered comparison testing using preserved samples from the criminal investigation.
Gerald was excluded.
Dr.
Vale excluded.
Todd excluded.
Then Daria asked a question nobody else had considered.
“What about Nick’s brother?”
I stared at her.
“Evan?”
Nick’s older brother.
The one who had flown from Denver for the funeral.
The one who had hugged me beside the grave.
“No.”
“Angela, I’m not accusing anyone.”
“Then why would you—”
“Because full siblings share enough DNA that some fertility fraud cases become difficult to recognize without deeper testing.”
My skin went cold.
Evan agreed immediately.
His DNA matched.
The third embryo was genetically mine.
And Evan’s.
I called him myself.
He answered on the second ring.
“Angie?”
“Did you know?”
Silence.
That was enough.
I closed my eyes.
“Did you know?”
His voice broke.
“Yes.”
I sat down.
“Tell me.”
Ten years earlier, before our IVF cycle, Nick had learned he had severely reduced fertility.
Not impossible.
But poor.
He became obsessed with the idea that I would leave him if he could not give me children.
I never knew.
The clinic recommended ICSI, where a single sperm is injected directly into an egg.
Nick panicked.
Without telling me, he asked Evan to donate a sample.
Evan refused at first.
Then Nick begged.
“He told me you knew,” Evan said.
Of course he did.
That had become Nick’s favorite weapon.
*Angela knows.*
*Angela agreed.*
*Angela wants this.*
“How many?”
“One sample.”
“Why?”
“Because he was my brother.”
“And I was your sister-in-law.”
“I know.”
“No, Evan.
You clearly did not.”
He cried.
I did not.
Not then.
I had spent too many years producing tears for men who believed shame was a substitute for consent.
But one question remained.
“If you provided the sample, why do two embryos belong to Nick?”
“I don’t know.”
