“She had her eggs harvested and frozen years ago, when you first started trying.”

“She used those eggs, and your clinic samples.”

“She found Claire.”

“Claire was young, broke, and working as a receptionist at the clinic.”

“Evelyn paid for everything through a private account her father had left her.”

“She kept it entirely off the family books.”

I leaned my shoulder against the wall.

The yellow paint on the drywall was peeling near the baseboard.

“Why didn’t she tell me?” I whispered.

“She wanted to spare you the agony, Mr. Whitmore,” Ruth said.

“She knew the stress of a surrogate pregnancy during her own cancer fight would break you.”

“She wanted your final months with her to be peaceful.”

“She wanted you to focus only on her.”

“And she wanted the babies to be a clean start for you when she was gone.”

I closed my eyes.

I pictured Evelyn in her final weeks, her skin pale and paper-thin.

She had smiled so much during those last days.

I had thought she was just being brave for me.