Elizabeth reached into her handbag and pulled out a manila envelope, worn at the edges as if it had been carried around for a long time. “Because I’ve heard about what your sister is claiming. And because, despite everything, I can’t let another woman suffer from my son’s lies.”
Her fingers trembled slightly as she slid the envelope across the table. With trembling hands, I opened it. Inside were medical records from Boston General Hospital dated ten years ago—about a year before James and I got married. My eyes scanned the document, and I felt the blood drain from my face:
Complete azospermia. Permanently sterile. No possibility of natural conception.
The clinical terms jumped out at me, each one a fresh blow.
“James had these tests done when he was twenty-five,” Elizabeth explained softly. “He was devastated by the results. It was one of the last things we discussed before our falling out.”
I couldn’t speak. All those years of fertility treatments—the endless doctor’s appointments, the hormone injections, the tears and self-blame—it had all been a cruel charade.