The moment the doctor closed the office door, I knew something was terribly wrong.
He didn’t sit down immediately. Instead, he stood beside his desk, staring at the computer screen with an expression I had never seen on a medical professional before.
My best friend Emily was squeezing my hand so tightly that my fingers had started to hurt.
Neither of us said anything.
Finally, the doctor turned toward us.
“Before I explain these results, I need you both to answer one question honestly. Are you absolutely certain that the same sperm donor was used for both pregnancies?”
“Yes,” Emily answered immediately.
I nodded.
“Of course. We selected him together. We went through the entire process together.”
The doctor looked back at his computer.
Then he whispered something that made my stomach drop.
“Oh, my God.”
I was 32 years old, five months pregnant, and sitting beside the woman I had considered my sister for almost my entire life.
