…”insurance information gave birth last month. We need to correct the records, and we also need to discuss the outstanding balance.”
My mind went blank. I’d never been to a fertility clinic. I told the receptionist that, slowly and clearly. She paused, then transferred me to the clinic’s director.
The director pulled up the file. Over two years, a patient had gone through four rounds of IVF using my name, my date of birth and my insurance. My husband, Jordan, was listed as the patient’s spouse. The “error” the receptionist mentioned was a mix-up in the clinic’s own paperwork, which is why they had been trying to reach the real policyholder. Me.
I knew immediately who the patient was. Jordan’s sister, Kelsey, had told the whole family she couldn’t afford fertility treatment. Then, eighteen months later, she announced she was pregnant. Everyone called it a miracle.
It wasn’t a miracle. It was identity theft. Jordan had given her my information so her treatments would be billed to my insurance policy through his job. Kelsey used my name at every appointment.
I finally understood why Jordan had started telling everyone I was unstable and that my baby wasn’t his. If the clinic ever contacted me, he wanted me to look like a confused woman whose word couldn’t be trusted.
My lawyer reported everything to the insurance company and the police. The investigation confirmed more than $60,000 in fraudulent claims. Jordan and Kelsey were both charged with insurance fraud and identity theft. Kelsey’s lawyer negotiated a repayment plan, and she avoided prison. Jordan didn’t.
I want to be clear about something: Kelsey’s baby is innocent, and I would never wish anything bad on that little boy. I hope he grows up loved. But his mother built his beginning on my name, and his uncle tried to destroy my reputation to hide it.
The divorce was finalized with Jordan’s paternity test as part of the record. The judge noted his “deliberate and cruel campaign” to damage my reputation and granted me full custody of our son.
I’m still in treatment for postpartum depression, and I’m doing well. My son is ten months old now. He has Jordan’s chin, which is a little ironic. My best friend, the one who sent me those screenshots, is his godmother. She says it’s her job to make sure he grows up to be nothing like his father.
