“They are,” Dr. Whitman said, “but they’re disiggotic twins. Fraternal, not identical. That means two separate eggs were fertilized. And according to the DNA analysis, those eggs were fertilized by sperm from two different men.”
“How is that even possible?”
“It’s called heteropernnal supercondation,” Dr. Whitman said. “It’s rare, occurs in about 1 in400 twin pregnancies. It happens when a woman releases two eggs during the same ovulation cycle and has intercourse with two different men within a 24 to 48 hour window. Each egg is fertilized by a different man’s sperm.”
My mind was racing, trying to piece together a memory I’d buried for 11 years.
“11 years ago,” I whispered. “June 2015.”
Dr. Whitman waited.
I closed my eyes, and it all came back.
Graham and I had been fighting for weeks. He wanted me to quit my job at the architecture firm. Wanted me to focus on planning the wedding he’d already scheduled without asking me.
He wanted control over my career, my schedule, my life.
We’d had a blowup fight on a Thursday night. I’d told him I wasn’t sure about the wedding. He’d called me ungrateful, accused me of still being in love with Julian Reed, my ex-boyfriend.
He wasn’t entirely wrong.
The next night, Friday, I went to a company event at the Portland Art Museum.
I didn’t invite Graham.
I needed space.
And Julian was there.
Julian Reed, my ex-boyfriend, the man I’d loved before Graham, the man I’d almost married. We’d broken up 3 years earlier because I wasn’t ready to settle down.
He’d asked me to marry him.
I’d said no.
I’d chosen my career.
Then I’d met Graham.
Julian and I hadn’t spoken in months.
But that night, standing in front of a Rothco painting, drinking too much wine, we talked about work, about life, about the choices we’d made.
We ended up at his apartment.
I told myself it was closure.
I told myself it didn’t mean anything.
But when I woke up the next morning in his bed, I knew I’d made a mistake.
I went back to Graham that Sunday.
I apologized.
I said yes to the wedding.
I tried to forget Julian.
Two weeks later, I found out I was pregnant.
“Mrs. Hayes.”
I opened my eyes.
Dr. Whitman was watching me carefully.
“I know who the other father is,” I said quietly. “His name is Julian Reed.”
Dr. Whitman nodded slowly.
“We’ll need to contact him. If he’s the biological father of one of the girls, he may be a compatible bone marrow donor. Do you know how to reach him?”
“Yes.” My voice was barely audible. “He’s an architect. He lives in Seattle.”
“Can you call him tonight?”
“I haven’t spoken to him in 11 years.”
“I understand this is difficult,” Dr. Whitman said. “But Sophie is running out of time. We need to test all potential donors as quickly as possible. If Julian is her biological father, he has a 50% chance of being a compatible match. That’s significantly better odds than finding an unrelated donor through the registry.”
I thought about Julian, the man I’d loved, the man I’d hurt, the man who had no idea he might be a father.
And I thought about Sophie, pale and fragile in her hospital bed, fighting for her life.
“I’ll call him,” I said.
Dr. Whitman handed me a sheet of paper.
“Here’s what you need to tell him. We need him here by Friday for HLA testing. Explain the situation as clearly as you can. And, Ms. Hayes…” She paused. “I know this is overwhelming, but right now the most important thing is finding a donor. The rest can wait.”
I stood on shaking legs.
“What about Graham? When are you going to tell him?”
“I’m required to inform him as the legal guardian, but given the circumstances, I wanted to speak with you first. I’ll call him tomorrow morning.”
“He’s going to lose his mind.”
“That’s not your responsibility,” Dr. Whitman said firmly. “Your responsibility is to help save your daughter. That’s all that matters right now.”
I walked out of her office in a days.
The hospital hallways were empty.
The only sound, the distant beeping of monitors and the hum of ventilation systems.
I found a quiet waiting room and pulled out my phone.
Julian’s number was still saved in my contacts.
I’d never been able to delete it.
I stared at the screen for a long time, my thumb hovering over the call button.
What was I supposed to say?
Hi, it’s Isabelle. Remember that night 11 years ago? Turns out one of my daughters might be yours. Also, she has leukemia. Can you come to Seattle?
I pressed call.
The phone rang once, twice, three times.
Then a voice I hadn’t heard in over a decade.
“Hello?”
“Julian,” I said, my voice breaking. “It’s Isabelle. I need your help.”
There was a long pause on the other end.
I could hear his breathing, steady and calm the way it always was.
Finally, he spoke.
“Isabelle, is that really you?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to call like this. I know it’s been years and I have no right to ask you for anything, but…” My voice cracked. “Something’s happened. Something terrible, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”
“Are you okay?”
The concern in his voice was immediate, genuine.
That was Julian, always putting others first, even after all this time.
“I’m not hurt,” I said quickly. “But Julian, I have twin daughters. They’re 10 years old. And one of them, Sophie, she has leukemia. She needs a bone marrow transplant.”
Another pause.
I could almost see him processing this information, trying to make sense of it.
“I’m so sorry,” he said finally. “That’s devastating. But, Isabelle, why are you calling me?”
I closed my eyes.
This was the hardest part.
“Because the hospital ran DNA tests to find potential donors, and they discovered something. Julie and the twins, they have different biological fathers. It’s rare, but it happens. And one of them…” I took a breath. “One of them might be yours.”
The silence on the other end stretched so long I thought he’d hung up.
“Julian?”
“I’m here.” His voice was quiet, stunned. “You’re saying I might have a daughter?”
