…”the founder of the fertility clinic you used. Dr. Howard Lyle.”
I almost dropped the phone. My wife, Emma, and I had done IVF after years of trying. The separation she mentioned happened before our final round of treatment. Both embryos were supposed to be created with my sample.
The doctor explained that the second embryo had been created with donor material that didn’t belong to me. A national genetic database had matched it to Dr. Lyle, the man who had personally run our clinic. He had retired years ago. He’d shaken my hand and told me we’d be great parents.
So the affair with Daniel was real. But it had nothing to do with our son. The dark curly hair was Dr. Lyle’s. It was a coincidence that broke my heart for nothing.
I wish I could say that made things easier with Emma. It didn’t. She had still lied to me for three years. And she’d banned Daniel from our house because she was afraid of exactly the question I’d finally asked.
We joined a group of families who had used the same clinic. Within months, the group found nineteen other children who matched Dr. Lyle. A lawsuit followed, and the state opened a criminal investigation into fertility fraud.
Emma and I separated for good the following year. We co-parent our boys, Jack and Oliver, and we do it well, which surprises everyone, including us.
Daniel and I haven’t spoken since. Some betrayals don’t need DNA tests.
People ask whether I love Oliver differently now. The answer is no. I taught both boys to ride bikes on the same afternoon. I sat up with both of them when they had chickenpox. When Oliver learned the truth, at age ten, he asked me only one thing: “Are you still my dad?” I told him I’d been his dad since the second the doctor put him in my arms, and that no test in the world can undo that.
