My Husband Thought I Couldn’t Understand German—Until I Discovered He Had Stolen My Baby
PART 3
My heart began beating faster.
“But if he didn’t give you my name, who did?”
Rebecca lowered her voice.
“Sophie.”
The name landed like a stone.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, “What happened?”
“She came into the clinic yesterday.”
My fingers tightened around the pen.
“Is she okay?”
“Yes. Physically, she’s fine.”
“Then why are you calling me?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Because she asked us to contact you if anything happened to her.”
I stared at the half-finished coffee in front of me.
“What kind of thing?”
“She was frightened.”
My throat went dry.
“Frightened of what?”
“Of your husband.”
I stopped breathing.
Rebecca continued.
“She told one of our counselors that she believes Julian has been lying to both of you.”
Both of you.
The words echoed in my head.
“What did she say?”
“I’m not supposed to discuss another patient’s private information.”
“I understand.”
“And normally, I wouldn’t be calling you at all.”
“Then why are you?”
“Because Sophie left something for you.”
I looked down at my notebook.
“What?”
“A sealed envelope.”
My pulse was hammering now.
“Why would she leave me an envelope?”
“She said you would understand when you saw what was inside.”
I swallowed.
“Where is she?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Is she in danger?”
Another pause.
“I think you should talk to her yourself.”
I closed my eyes.
“What did she leave?”
Rebecca’s voice became quieter.
“Photographs. Receipts. And a copy of something your husband signed.”
My eyes opened.
“What did he sign?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said you work at the clinic.”
“I do. But the envelope was sealed. Sophie gave it to our director with instructions.”
“Instructions for what?”
“To make sure it reached you.”
I stared at the street outside.
For years, I had believed my greatest problem was infertility.
I had believed my marriage was strong except for that one painful subject.
I had believed Julian loved me.
Maybe I had been wrong about everything.
“Where can I get the envelope?”
Rebecca gave me an address.
I wrote it down.
Then she said something that made my hand stop.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t tell Julian about this call.”
My blood ran cold.
“Why?”
“Because Sophie specifically told us not to.”
The call ended shortly afterward.
I remained in the booth for another twenty minutes.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t even finish my coffee.
I simply stared at the address written in my notebook.
Then I turned the page.
Underneath the eleven business trips, I wrote one sentence.
Julian is not the only person who has been lying.
The clinic was twenty-three minutes away.
I drove there slowly.
Not because I was afraid.
Because I needed time to think.
When I arrived, a receptionist handed me a plain brown envelope.
There was no return address.
My name was written across the front.
CLAIRE.
Nothing else.
I sat in my car and stared at it.
For a moment, I considered throwing it into the passenger seat and driving home.
Then I remembered Helga’s voice.
We’ll make her raise this baby.
I opened the envelope.
The first photograph fell into my lap.
Julian.
Standing outside a hotel.
With Sophie.
My breath caught.
They weren’t kissing.
They didn’t need to.
Julian’s hand was resting protectively against her stomach.
Five months pregnant.
The second photograph showed them entering a building together.
The third showed Julian carrying a large box toward Sophie’s apartment.
The fourth was a photograph of Julian sitting beside her on a couch.
And the fifth—
I stopped.
It was a photograph of a document.
I unfolded the actual paper beneath it.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
Then I saw Julian’s signature.
My hands began shaking.
It was a legal agreement.
A financial agreement.
Between Julian and Sophie.
I read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time.
My vision blurred.
Julian had promised to provide Sophie with a monthly allowance throughout her pregnancy.
That wasn’t the worst part.
He had also promised to transfer ownership of a property to her after the child’s birth.
A property I knew.
Our lake house.
The house my father had left me.
The house Julian had spent years calling “our vacation home.”
But according to this document, Julian had apparently been planning to give it away.
I leaned back against the driver’s seat.
“No.”
The word came out as a whisper.
Then I looked at the final photograph.
It wasn’t of Julian and Sophie.
It was of a document from a fertility clinic.
My name was on it.
My heart stopped.
I read the heading.
Then I read it again.
It was a medical record.
A fertility report.
And beneath my name was a handwritten note.
Embryo transfer canceled at husband’s request.
I couldn’t feel my hands anymore.
For six years, I had believed my body had failed me.
Six years of injections.
Six years of appointments.
Six years of doctors telling me to stay hopeful.
Six years of Julian holding me while I cried.
But according to this document, at least one of those treatments had never been intended to work.
Julian had canceled it.
Without telling me.
I covered my mouth.
A sob escaped before I could stop it.
Then another thought hit me.
If he had canceled the transfer…
Why?
I turned to the next page.
There was a note from the clinic.
