The next morning, Garrison made coffee.
He didn’t ask me questions.
He didn’t tell me I should have noticed Julian’s behavior sooner.
He didn’t say I deserved better.
He simply placed a mug in front of me.
Then he put an envelope beside it.
“This is for you.”
I looked at the envelope.
“What’s inside?”
“Something you should have seen years ago.”
My name was written on the front.
I opened it.
Inside was a medical report.
The patient name was Julian Mercer.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
My hands became cold.
The report was from a fertility clinic.
And the diagnosis was clear:
Severe male-factor infertility.
I looked at Garrison.
“What is this?”
“Your husband’s medical report.”
“Where did you get it?”
“I didn’t steal it.”
He paused.
“Years ago, there was an investigation involving the clinic. A former administrator was suspected of altering and suppressing medical records.”
My heart began pounding.
“Julian’s record?”
Garrison nodded.
“Your husband had been tested before you started treatment.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“He knew?”
“He knew.”
I looked down at the report again.
A sentence near the bottom caught my attention.
Natural conception considered highly unlikely.
Six years.
Six years of believing I was the reason we had no child.
Six years of painful procedures.
Six years of being told by Julian’s mother that maybe I wasn’t trying hard enough.
And Julian had known.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know you.”
I looked at him.
He continued.
“And because a medical record is not something I could simply walk across the street and hand to a stranger.”
“Then why now?”
“Because your husband tried to use your medical history against you.”
His voice hardened.
“And because I saw what he did to you last night.”
I closed my eyes.
For the first time, my anger became stronger than my shame.
