Evan’s eyes moved down the page, his face losing its color in the bright dining room light. He read the primary diagnosis code, then the line containing the word azoospermia, highlighted in red ink.
“This paper cannot be real, Claire, you must have changed the dates,” Evan muttered, his voice cracking as he reached the bottom of the page.
“It is certified by the state medical board,” I said. “And the date is from three years ago.”
Evan’s knees buckled slightly, and he reached out to catch himself, his hands beginning to shake against the polished mahogany of the dining table as he stared at the laboratory document.
I picked up my navy suitcase and walked past him, my mother’s gold wristwatch heavy on my left wrist.
No one in the dining room moved to stop me, not even Margaret, whose hand remained poised over her platinum ring.
The gravel in the driveway crunched under my flats as I pulled the suitcase toward the waiting black SUV.
