…your sister’s fiancé.”
I had no idea my sister, Carla, had a fiancé.
The attorney, Mr. Shapiro, explained. Twenty years ago, after our second child was born, my husband, Glenn, had a vasectomy. I’d been there. I’d held his hand. It was in his medical records. The chance of him fathering a child now was close to zero.
Carla had submitted pregnancy documents from a small private clinic called Lakeview Women’s Health. Mr. Shapiro had done some digging. The clinic was owned by a man named Derek Price. And Derek Price’s Facebook profile had a photo of him proposing to my sister, three months earlier, at a restaurant in Florida.
Carla was pregnant. But the baby was Derek’s. Glenn’s sudden death had given them an idea: claim the baby was Glenn’s, make me feel guilty and humiliated in front of the whole family, and get a quick settlement before anyone asked questions. Derek had even forged a letter supposedly written by Glenn, “admitting” the affair.
“She’ll drop the claim the moment she learns you’ve seen this,” Mr. Shapiro said. “And if she doesn’t, she’ll be facing fraud charges.”
I invited Carla to his office the next week. She came, smiling, expecting to sign a settlement.
Mr. Shapiro placed three documents in front of her: Glenn’s vasectomy records, the clinic’s ownership papers and the engagement photo. Carla’s smile disappeared. She signed a withdrawal of her claim in less than five minutes.
My mother, who had told me to be “understanding,” cried when I showed her the papers. She apologized for not believing me.
Carla and I don’t speak anymore. I’ve heard she and Derek got married. I sent a card when the baby was born, because the baby didn’t do anything wrong.
Glenn would have laughed at the whole thing. He always said Carla could find drama in an empty room. I miss him every day. I’m just glad nobody got to rewrite who he was.
