“There’s only one way to find out.”
I pushed open the door.
Sophie looked up and gave me a small, tentative smile.
Ruby looked up, her expression uncertain.
“Ruby,” Sophie said softly. “This is mom.”
Ruby stared at me, her face carefully blank.
“Dad said you left because you didn’t love us.”
The lie hit me harder than Graham’s blackmail.
I knelt down so I was at Ruby’s eye level, even though she wouldn’t look at me.
“That’s not true,” I said, my voice steady despite the tears burning behind my eyes. “I love you more than anything in the world. Your father took you away from me. I’ve been trying to come back every single day.”
Ruby’s hands were clenched in her lap, knuckles white.
“Dad said you were sick. He said you couldn’t take care of us.”
“Your father lied,” I said. “And I’m not sick. I never was.”
Ruby finally looked at me, and I saw confusion in her eyes.
Confusion and a desperate need to understand.
She opened her mouth to say something, but a nurse appeared in the doorway.
“Dr. Whitman needs you all in the lab.”
Nurse Melissa Grant was a young woman, maybe 32, with kind eyes and a professional smile.
When she glanced at Ruby, I saw her expression shift to concern. She seemed to notice how thin Ruby was, how carefully she held herself.
“Come on, girls,” Graham said from behind me. I hadn’t heard him enter. “Time for the blood tests.”
Ruby stood up slowly, and I noticed how her movement seemed overly cautious, as though she was used to making herself small.
The HLA testing took 20 minutes.
Quick blood draws, sterile needles, labels on vials.
Graham refused to look at me.
Sophie held my hand.
Ruby stared at the floor.
Afterward, Dr. Whitman gathered us in her office and explained the transplant process.
If we found a match, Sophie would undergo highdosese chemotherapy to destroy her diseased bone marrow, then receive the donor’s healthy stem cells through an IV.
The recovery would take months.
The survival rate, if we found a compatible donor, was 70 to 80%.
“When will we know the results?” Graham asked.
“We’re running a rapid HLA typing protocol due to the urgency,” Dr. Whitman said. “Preliminary results should be available within 2 hours. Full confirmation will take 24 to 48 hours, but the preliminary test will tell us if anyone is a potential match.”
2 hours felt like 2 years.
I sat in the hospital cafeteria staring at a cup of coffee I couldn’t drink.
My phone buzzed, Marcus texting that the Morrison Tower clients were threatening to pull the contract.
I didn’t respond.
At 5:00 p.m., Dr. Whitman called us back to her office.
Graham arrived with a woman I didn’t recognize, mid-30s, blonde, polished.
She stood close to Graham, her hand on his arm.
“This is Stephanie,” Graham said, not bothering with a last name or explanation.
Dr. Whitman ignored her and looked at me, then Graham.
“I have the preliminary HLA results. Isabelle, you’re not a match. Graham, you’re not a match either.”
My heart sank.
“What about Ruby?”
“Ruby is a 50% match with Sophie, consistent with siblings. That’s good news. However…” Dr. Whitman paused, glancing at her tablet. “There’s something unusual in Ruby’s genetic markers. They don’t align with the expected pattern based on Graham’s HLA profile.”
Graham frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I need to run a more comprehensive genetic panel tonight,” Dr. Whitman said carefully. “There may be additional factors we need to explore.”
I saw the flicker of confusion cross Graham’s face, quickly replaced by suspicion.
He turned to me, his eyes narrowing.
“What did you do, Isabelle?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I said, but my voice faltered.
Because suddenly I was thinking about a night 11 years ago, a fight with Graham, a hotel room, a mistake I’d buried so deep I’d almost convinced myself it never happened.
Dr. Whitman stood.
“I’ll have the full genetic analysis by morning. For now, I suggest you all get some rest. Sophie is stable.”
Graham left without another word, Stephanie trailing behind him.
I stayed.
“Dr. Whitman,” I said quietly, “what aren’t you telling me?”
She closed the office door.
“Ms. Hayes, there’s something I need to discuss with you privately. Can we talk after dinner?”
By the time Dr. Whitman called me back to her office, it was past 8:00 p.m. The hospital hallways were quiet, the fluorescent lights humming softly overhead.
Graham had left hours ago.
Sophie and Ruby were asleep in their room, monitored by night nurses.
It was just me and the truth I wasn’t ready to hear.
Dr. Whitman’s office was small, cluttered with medical journals and framed diplomas.
She gestured for me to sit, then closed the door.
“Ms. Hayes, I expedited the DNA analysis using a rapid PCR protocol under Washington emergency medical law. I’m permitted to run genetic testing without full parental consent when it’s necessary to identify potential bone marrow donors for a life-threatening condition.”
She paused, her expression careful.
“The results are complicated.”
My hands gripped the armrests of the chair.
“Just tell me.”
She pulled up a file on her computer and turned the screen toward me.
Charts, numbers, genetic markers.
I didn’t understand.
“First, the good news. The mitochondrial DNA confirms you are the biological mother of both Sophie and Ruby. There’s no question about that.”
“And the bad news?”
Dr. Whitman met my eyes.
“Graham Pierce is not the biological father of either child.”
The room tilted.
“What?”
“The DNA analysis shows no paternal genetic match between Graham and Sophie or Ruby. He is not their father.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“That’s impossible. I’ve never… Graham and I were together when I got pregnant. We were engaged. I didn’t—”
“Ms. Hayes.” Dr. Whitman’s voice was gentle but firm. “There’s more.”
“Sophie and Ruby have different biological fathers.”
The words didn’t make sense.
“Different fathers? They’re twins.”
