Mike — Greg’s best friend. The guy who showed up with beer for his promotion party. The one who changed Tiffany’s diapers while I sobbed in the shower during those early, sleepless months.
And that’s when I understood I was about to do something I never imagined a mother would face.
I was going to call the police.
Now I’m standing in my kitchen, phone pressed to my ear, listening to a woman from the department speak in a measured tone.
“Ma’am, if your signature was forged for medical procedures, that’s a criminal offense. Which clinic handled your IVF?”
I gave her every detail.
“I never authorized an alternate donor,” I said. “Not once.”
“Then you did the right thing by contacting us,” she replied. “I’ll reach out to the clinic.”
