“You chose that name,” I said to Melinda.
She shook her head slowly.
My eyes moved to Connor.
For once, he could not hold my gaze.
“You named him Elliot,” I whispered.
Connor’s silence was enough.
Melinda looked between us, confused. “What?”
I pushed back from the table. “That was my name.”
“Kirsten,” Kenneth said gently.
“No.” I stood because sitting suddenly felt impossible. “That was the name I wanted. Years ago.”
Melinda’s face folded in pain.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
I believed her.
That was the worst part.
I believed her about that.
Connor had not only taken the embryos. He had taken the name too. A private piece of hope from a woman he claimed had never wanted a family badly enough.
He had built his new life out of stolen fragments and then brought it to my workplace like a trophy.
The room blurred.
I turned away, blinking hard.
Through the small window in the door, I could see the pediatric wing continuing around us. Nurses moved with purpose. Parents carried backpacks and juice boxes. A little girl in purple slippers shuffled past holding her father’s hand.
Life did not stop because yours cracked open.
It never had.
“Kirsten,” Melinda said behind me, “I am sorry.”
I did not turn around.
“I know it isn’t enough,” she continued. “I know there isn’t a sentence big enough. But I am sorry.”
There had been a time when her apology would have been the thing I wanted most. I had imagined it in the early months after the divorce, back when pain still made me rehearse conversations in the shower and in traffic and at three in the morning.
I had imagined her admitting everything. Crying. Explaining. Telling me she missed me. Telling me she had made a terrible mistake.
But now the apology arrived carrying a sleeping baby and a folder full of forged signatures.
It felt much too small.
“I don’t know what to do with your apology,” I said.
“That’s fair,” she whispered.
Connor scoffed. “This is pathetic. Both of you.”
Kenneth’s voice cut in, crisp and final. “Mr. Fleming, I strongly advise you to stop speaking.”
Connor pointed at the folder. “You think some paperwork changes reality?”
“Yes,” Kenneth said. “It often does.”
A strange sound escaped me. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob.
Connor glared.
Kenneth gathered the documents. “We are not resolving this here. Kirsten, I’ll need to meet with you after your shift if you’re able. If not, tomorrow morning.”
“I’m able,” I said.
Melinda stepped forward. “What happens now?”
Kenneth looked at her carefully. “That depends, in part, on what you choose to do next.”
She swallowed. “I’ll cooperate.”
“No,” Connor said.
She did not look at him.
