And I realized that I was about to do something I never imagined a mother would have to do.
I was about to call the police. Then, I was standing in my kitchen with the phone pressed to my ear, listening to a woman from the police department.
Not a stranger, not an anonymous donor…
“Ma’am, if your signature was forged for medical procedures, that’s a criminal offense. Which clinic handled your IVF?”
I gave her all the details. “I never signed for an alternative donor. Not ever.”
“Then you did the right thing by calling,” she replied. “I’ll call the clinic.”
I screenshot the call log and the results, then set my phone down.
Greg was due home in 20 minutes, and I was done pretending I didn’t already know what happened.
“I never signed for an alternative donor.”
Three Months Earlier
“Tiffany, slow down,” I laughed, catching the edge of her backpack before it toppled a stack of mail. “You’re like a one-girl tornado!”
She yanked a crumpled kit from the front compartment and waved it like a prize. “Mom! We’re doing genetics! We have to swab our families and mail it in, like real scientists!”
“Okay, Dr. Tiffany. Shoes off and wash your hands first, then we’ll see what this is all about.”
She darted off. I was still smiling when Greg came through the door.
“Mom! We’re doing genetics! We have to swab our families.”
“Hey, babe,” I said.
“Hey.” Greg was already distracted. He kissed my cheek absentmindedly and headed for the fridge.
Tiffany reappeared and jumped up to hug him.
“Hey, bug. What’s all this about?” Greg asked, nodding to the kit.
“It’s my genetics project for school,” she said, holding up a sterile swab like a trophy. “Open up, Daddy! I need a sample from you and Mom!”
“Hey, bug. What’s all this about?”
Greg turned. He looked at the swab, then at me… then at our daughter. His fingers flexed like he wanted to snatch it out of her hand. His face lost every hint of color. His voice, when it came, didn’t belong to the man I married.
“No.”
“Huh?” Tiffany blinked. “But it’s for school, Daddy.”
“I said no,” he snapped. “We’re not putting our DNA into some surveillance system. That’s how they track you. I’ll give you a note for school, Tiffany. But we’re not doing this.”
“We’re not putting our DNA into some surveillance system.”
I looked at my husband: we had Alexa in every room, Echo in the hallway, and a Ring camera on the porch — and I frowned.
“Greg, you let a speaker listen to you complain about your fantasy football league.”
He shook his head, jaw tight. “It’s different, Sue.”
“How? This is for school.”
“Because I said so — drop it.”
“It’s different, Sue.”
Tiffany’s face crumpled. She dropped the swab.
“Is it because you don’t love me?” she asked.
“No, baby, of course not,” I said, stepping toward her.
But Greg didn’t say a word. He picked up the kit, crushed it, and threw it in the trash. Then he turned and left the room.
That night, my daughter cried herself to sleep.
“Is it because you don’t love me?”
When you spend years in IVF — appointments, needles, and hope that doesn’t stretch far — you get to know your partner well.
I did the injections, Greg handled the paperwork. He said it was his way of “carrying weight.” I remembered his hand on my knee in the parking lot when I couldn’t stop crying.
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