Part 4 — I Found an Unknown Woman Beside My Husband When I Came to the Hospital Pregnant, but Her Face Suddenly Went Pale at the Doctor’s Words

I immediately called the clinic’s number, but the answering machine told me that office hours were over.

Gareth snatched the phone from me.

“This is no longer necessary, Natalie.”

“Let go of me.”

“You are putting the baby in danger.”

“You were putting the baby in danger when you hid the matters connected with my doctors.”

Claire stood up.

“Mr. Holloway, let go of my client’s hand.”

Gareth immediately stepped back. For the first time I saw that there was more in his voice than anger.

Fear.

That same night Claire sent messages to the clinic administration, the police, and the court. The next morning it became clear that there really was an inconsistency in my fertilization documents.

Four years earlier, after the second loss, we went to a fertility clinic. Gareth went with me to every appointment. He said that having a child was equally important to both of us.

But the clinic records revealed that the genetic material registered as our embryo did not come from Gareth.

The donor code was identical in Sasha’s pregnancy documents.

That meant Gareth had paid a clinic employee during my treatment to replace my embryo. He wanted me to carry his child in my womb, while at the same time having Sasha give birth to his biological child.

Why?

Because Gareth’s father, who had died several years earlier, had written in his will that the family’s maritime company would pass only to his biological heir. Gareth thought that if my child carried his surname while Sasha’s child was also his blood, he could control both women.

Money. Company. Power.

My life had turned out to be only part of a plan for him.

The clinic director, Dr. Hayes, joined me by video call.

“Mrs. Holloway, we found a signed consent form that you did not fill out.”

“Who signed it?”

He held the document up in front of the camera.

It was Gareth’s signature.

Gareth shook his head.

“It is forged.”

Sasha said quietly:

“No. I saw him sign it.”

Gareth looked toward her.

“You were involved too.”

“I was, until I found out that you were destroying both of them.”

Claire placed a second sheet on the table.

“This is not only a family betrayal. This is falsification of medical records, embezzlement of funds, and fraud.”

Gareth took out his phone.

“I will call my lawyer.”

He called, but the lawyer listened for only several seconds and then told him:

“Gareth, under these circumstances I can no longer defend you. The documents have already been sent to me. Appear at the police station tomorrow morning.”

The call ended.

Gareth sat down in the chair.

And I could no longer look at him as I had before.

Claire played the recording again. This time every word of Gareth’s was heard more clearly.

“The baby is not yours.”

“Natalie will never find out.”

“I will control everything.”

Gareth froze.

“Turn it off,” he said.

“Why?” I asked. “It is your voice, isn’t it?”

“I did not know what I was saying then.”

“You knew exactly. You simply did not think you would ever hear me.”

That same evening the police took Gareth away. Sasha was also awaiting questioning, but she handed all the recordings and bank transfers to the investigators. She remained as a witness and later left the city.

During the search of Gareth’s office they found a folder in which every step of my life was written down: doctor’s appointments, account balances, the baby’s estimated birth date, and even the day on which I planned to paint the child’s room.

But one thing destroyed me most.

On my desk stood a small wooden box in which Gareth kept our wedding tickets every year. Now only one ticket remained in the box — one from twenty-three years earlier, from a seaside cinema.

He had taken the rest.

Probably for Sasha.

Probably to prove his own lie.

Several weeks later, the court brought a case against Gareth. He partially admitted his guilt. He lost the company, the house, and the right to approach me or the child without permission. I did not attend his sentencing.

That day I was in the maternity hospital.

Our girl, Lea, was born in the morning. She was small, but strong. When I first laid her on my chest, her fingers wrapped around my thumb.

“Mommy is here,” I whispered.

Diana stood beside the bed and cried.

“Natalie, she has your eyes.”

“No,” I said, looking at Lea. “She has her own life.”

Three months later I moved to another city. Far from the sea, but in the same state. I worked in a small skincare salon, then opened my own studio. In the mornings I walked Lea by the window, at noon I saw clients, and in the evenings I put her little drawings on the refrigerator.

In the first drawing there were three figures: me, Lea, and Remington. Remington had large ears beside Lea, although in reality he was already old and almost motionless.

In winter he died too.

That day Lea asked me:

“Mommy, why are you crying?”

“Because someone is missing from us.”

“I am here.”

“I know.”

She kissed me on the cheek.

“Then don’t cry anymore.”

The hardest thing was not losing Gareth, but grieving the woman I had been while beside him. The woman who thought patience was the highest form of love.

A year later I received a letter from Gareth. My new address was written on the envelope. There were only a few lines in the letter.

“Natalie, I know I cannot force you to forgive me. But Lea is my blood and I want you, at least once, to explain to me that I did everything out of love.”

I placed the letter on the kitchen table.

Diana asked me:

“Will you answer?”

“Yes.”

The answer was short.

“You confused love with control. We no longer belong to your control.”

Then I tore up the letter and threw it in the trash.

I was not proud of it. Nor was I angry.

I simply no longer wanted, for the first time, to save him from the consequences he himself had chosen.

One morning, several months later, Lea was sitting on the kitchen floor and drawing with colored pencils. The first snow could be seen through the window. Remington’s old blue ceramic bowl was still on top of the cabinet, although now I kept Lea’s pencils in it.

Lea raised her head.

“Mommy, look. This is our house.”

In the drawing there was a small yellow house. Three people stood beside it. One had a large stomach, another held a baby in their arms, and the third had no face at all.

“Who is this?” I asked.

“Nobody,” Lea told me. “They don’t live here anymore.”

I put the pencils into the box. Then I took Lea’s hand and led her to the window.

Under the kitchen heating was Remington’s empty place. Lea’s little shoes now stood there.

I placed the old cinema ticket in that place — the only one that had remained in the box.

The smell of the sea no longer reminded me of Gareth.

Now it reminded me of freedom.

Lea squeezed my hand more tightly.

“Mommy, are we home?”

Outside the window, snow was falling quietly.

“Yes,” I told her. “Now we are truly home.”

And for the first time in twenty-three years, there was no lie in those words.