In the corner, a portable blue crib stood near the sofa, draped in a soft yellow blanket.

My heart leaped into my throat, and my chest felt tight.

I took a step toward it, but Olivia stepped in front of me, her hands raised.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice cracking.

“He’s sleeping.”

“He’s my son, Olivia,” I said softly, the words burning in my throat.

“He is my biological child, and you know it.”

“He’s mine too,” she sobbed, clutching her thick wool sweater tightly around herself.

“Margaret promised me we would raise him together.”

“She said you were unstable, Claire.”

“She said you abandoned the embryos after the divorce.”

“Margaret lied to you,” I said, taking a step closer to her.

I turned to Julian.

“Show her the files.”

Julian opened his leather messenger bag and pulled out a thick manila folder.

The paper was damp from the rain, but the printed text inside was dry.

He laid it on the heavy wooden coffee table between us.

“These are the internal records from the Westbridge Fertility Clinic,” Julian said.