The Embryos Sarah Thought Were Gone

Chapter 10 - The Embryos Sarah Thought Were Gone

Sarah froze six embryos before Anne died.

Edward never knew.

She had been thirty-two when she began treatment.

Michael said they should wait until his business stabilized.

Then another year.

Then another.

At thirty-five, Sarah was told two embryos remained viable after storage problems.

At thirty-eight, Michael told her the clinic destroyed them after a missed renewal payment.

Sarah grieved privately.

She never told Edward because motherhood had become another subject she believed her father would judge.

The clinic records found in Michael’s office showed something else.

Four embryos remained.

Storage paid.

Account current.

Authorized contact changed from Sarah to Michael using the expired power of attorney.

Edward felt sick.

“What did he do with them?”

Harold answered carefully.

“Nothing yet.”

Michael had requested information about gestational-carrier arrangements.

Not completed.

No transfer.

But he had asked whether embryos created during marriage could be used with one spouse’s consent under certain state laws.

The answer was generally no.

Still, the inquiry existed.

Sarah sat in Edward’s kitchen at two in the morning reading the records.

“My children.”

Edward did not correct the word.

Potential children.

Embryos.

Medical property.

None of those terms belonged in the center of her grief.

“Why would he tell me they were gone?”

Control.

Timing.

Leverage.

Maybe cruelty.

They did not know.

Natalie later provided another piece.

Michael had told her Sarah could not have children and did not want them.

He said they might build a family together after his divorce.

Natalie believed him.

Another future offered.

Sarah asked Natalie over the phone:

“Did he discuss my embryos?”

“No.”

The answer sounded horrified.

Good.

One line remained.

Michael may have wanted embryos preserved because a future child could strengthen his claim to family assets or public sympathy.

That was speculation.

No one turned it into fact.

Sarah had enough real betrayal without inventing more.

The clinic restored her exclusive control after legal review.

She had to decide what to do.

Not immediately.

Edward watched his daughter begin making choices one page at a time.

Change password.

Remove Michael.

Name independent emergency contact.

Request full records.

No one doing it for her.

At dawn, Sarah said:

“I don’t know who I am without him.”

Edward looked at Anne’s empty chair.

“I didn’t know who I was without your mother.”

“What did you do?”

“Badly, at first.”

That surprised her.

Edward had appeared steady after Anne died.

Funeral.

Bills.

Trust.

Properties.

He did not tell Sarah about the nights he slept in a chair because the bed felt like evidence.

Or the year he stopped cooking anything that required two portions.

“I worked,” he said.

“That isn’t identity.”

“No.”

He smiled faintly.

“It was avoidance.”

Sarah looked at him.

“You always seemed so strong.”

“Strength is often what grief looks like from the hallway.”

She cried.

Then asked:

“Did Mom know about the embryos?”

Edward shook his head.

Rebecca did.

Anne had helped Sarah pay for treatment from a private account.

Another secret.

Edward felt the familiar irritation.

Then stopped.

Anne was dead.

He could be angry and still love her.

Sarah said:

“She helped me because Michael said insurance wouldn’t.”

Documents showed insurance had covered part.

Michael redirected reimbursement into his business.

Thirty-two thousand dollars.

Again.

Small compared to land.

Not small to Sarah.

Every intimate hope had become cash flow.

Harold asked if Sarah wanted to cooperate in the criminal investigation.

“Yes.”

Immediate.

Then she paused.

“Will that send him to prison?”

“Possibly.”

Her face changed.

Attachment.

Fear.

Guilt.

Edward waited.

Sarah said:

“I still do.”

That was important.

Courage is not absence of conflicting feeling.

It is action that survives it.

The occupancy issue remained.

Michael’s belongings.

Sarah’s future.

The sixty-day notice included her too.

Edward had not withdrawn it.

She knew.

“Do I have to leave?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes filled.

“Even now?”

“Yes.”

She looked hurt.

Edward continued.

“I will help you plan.”

“That sounds like punishment.”

“It is consequence.”

“I was abused.”

“Yes.”

“I’m your daughter.”

“Yes.”

“You have five bedrooms.”

“Yes.”

She stared.

“Then why?”

Because returning to normal inside the same house would allow guilt to become dependency.

Because Sarah needed a bank account, rent, employment, and a door Michael had never touched.

Because Edward needed to stop proving love through shelter.

He said:

“Your mother wrote that the land should not become rescue.”

“This isn’t the land.”

“No.”

“It is your house.”

“Yes.”

She waited.

Edward’s voice softened.

“And I almost lost the right to it because I let family need become ownership.”

Sarah looked away.

That sentence reached her.

He offered six months of market-rate rent support paid directly to a landlord, declining each month.

Not a free apartment.

Not trust money.

A bridge.

Sarah would choose location, sign lease, and return to paid work.

She almost refused from pride.

Then accepted with conditions.

Written.

Clear.

Harold smiled faintly.

A family learning contracts did not have to mean distrust.

Sometimes clarity protected love.

Sarah found a small apartment near her old marketing agency.

Her former supervisor agreed to interview her.

Not guarantee.

Interview.

She prepared for it herself.

Then Joanna Collins called.

Michael’s sister had reviewed Arthur’s old records after seeing the case develop.

She found evidence of one account nobody knew existed.

A life-insurance payout after Arthur’s death.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

Beneficiary:

Michael.

Paid six years earlier.

He had told Sarah his father left nothing.

The money did not go into Collins Development.

It went to a trust in Nevada.

Current balance unknown.

Trust name:

A.C. Future Family Trust.

And the listed successor beneficiary was not Sarah.

It was a fourteen-year-old boy named Lucas Pierce.

Natalie’s nephew.

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Or so Michael had told everyone.

But the birth certificate revealed Michael Collins was the father.